The Rise of the Scourge
by PheonRen
Summary: Groll saved a slave. So everybody makes mistakes, right? But now he's got to figure out what the heck to do with her... M Orc/F BElf sexual content, violence, extremely adult situations
1. Chapter 1

Part 1

The big orc rarely came into this area of Orgrimmar. It stank, in the first place, and secondly, despite being hardened by many years of ruthless battle and even the ever-present memory of slavery; some of the things that went on here chilled him. This was a place where things went on that were best unspoken, and Groll was uncomfortable even being here. But the flasks he liked were to be acquired from his associate, Doko, who frequented this place almost exclusively if he was to be found in any major city at all.

Thus, Groll found himself stomping through the roughest part of a rough town as the last rays of the sun settled on the horizon_. Just the right time_, he thought a bit bitterly, _for the worst filth to come crawling out of the gutters_. He nearly pulled his cloak closer, but recognized that the gesture would betray a sense of trepidation, and to do that here would create a situation where someone would badly misjudge their chances, and get themselves killed. So he simply grunted and continued on his way.

He intended to, anyway. Unfortunately, that wasn't the way it was to work out on this particularly dusty, gray evening. He was alerted to an ensuing fray ahead of him by the sudden bellowing shout of an obviously infuriated troll. Groll's eyebrows lifted towards his thick, coarse hair as he peered through the gloom. Ahead, he saw the slavers' cages. A particularly unsavory, albeit legal trade the trolls indulged in, here in the darkest section of the city the orcs were now forced to share with them. The loophole that allowed it was that the slaves were considered goalers—people who had chosen to indebt themselves despite the possibility of becoming potentially permanently indentured "servants" if they didn't pay it back. Every slave had signed his or her own slave papers at the acceptance of the debt. Groll knew as well as anyone did that the people desperate enough to take these sorts of debts on were rarely the ones who could pay. But that was life, and it wasn't his business. He wanted nothing to do with whatever was going on there, and began to cross the street towards the shadows on the other side.

But this proved to be the exact wrong direction for someone who wanted to avoid the confrontation. Halfway through the street, he felt a sudden burning fire flash across his skin, and realized immediately that he'd been caught in a painful explosion of magic. Another utterance was followed by another flash of agonizing fire against his skin. Scowling, he turned towards the source of it, and saw a slight white figure in the midst of the circling trolls. Chains clattered at her wrists, neck, and ankles—apparently one of the slaves had changed her mind on her contract. He shrugged and turned to leave the area, when a flash in his peripheral vision alerted him just as the slender elf ran past him, breaking for freedom.

Reflexively, he grasped the chain that draped from her neck as it snapped past him. With a sudden jerk, the elf fell against him, and for a stunned instant they stared into each other's eyes. Then he saw her gather up to utter another incantation, and clamped his hand down over her mouth. He really didn't enjoy the pain of burning magic on his skin.

He also found that he didn't enjoy the sudden pain of teeth digging deeply into the flesh of his palm, either. Anger flashed through him, and he slammed his other hand into the side of her head, catching her as she slumped against him. Immediately, she was yanked from his hands, the troll slaver dropping her unceremoniously on the ground by the neck chain. The troll slapped a magic binding across her mouth, silencing her again, and then lifted the vicious lash he held in his hand. At the first snap of it across her skin, the elf snapped awake, disoriented and trying to scream. Blood rose where the lash had fallen, and the troll lifted it to snap it down again.

Surprising himself, Groll stopped the descending whip before it could touch the delicate skin again. The troll protested, his rank breath hitting Groll's sensitive nose like a slap. "I'll needs ta break 'er 'fore any'll buys her," the troll said, his dark eyes glittering oddly in the scarce light.

"She bit me." Groll held up his hand, letting the blood drip to the ground. "I'll buy her, and I'll break her, myself."

The troll's eyes flickered for a moment longer, a calculating look lingering around the edges, before smoothing over. It was clear he would try to get as much as possible for the elf, but Groll had no intention of being taken advantage of. This moment of weakness was going to be over with as quickly as possible, and as cheaply as possible. Whatever had brought the woman to such a place was going to be his problem for as short a time as possible.

The troll led him over to the table where the documents of the slaves in the cages were laid out. "Here's 'ers, mon. We gots ta recovah what she be owin', and den dere be mah fees." The document listed a mere 3,000 gold as her debt price, and the 'fees' that the troll asked for came to little more than 500. Shortly, pointing out how difficult she had been and that few would buy goods damaged by a whip, he had worked the total down to 3200 gold. A small amount of cash for him, really, but wasting it on an elf was irritating in the extreme. He tried not to question why he was even bothering, though he knew it was because she didn't deserve to be beaten while she was tied down and helpless. She never should have signed the documents and borrowed that small an amount of money at the price of being enslaved to begin with. But that didn't mean she should be treated as she had been.

He picked her up, stuffed the papers in his pocket, and threw her over his shoulder, heading off to get his flasks. It was going to be a long night, but he should be able to be rid of her soon enough. The pack that contained "on'y some magic-lookin' clothes she prolly stoled," he simply added to his own for the time being.

As he returned a while later, having simply refused to answer any of Doko's questions, he stopped short of passing the same place. The same troll he'd bought the woman from now stood defensively in front of his stand, three men confronting him in overt anger. Groll's keen ears had overheard something that brought him up short, "I want that elf, Dweelo, and I don't care how you get her. She's worth a hell of a lot more than you got for her, and you had better get her back if you want to live to see your next birthday. You got lazy and let her escape, and sold her off like a cow, when you knew I was coming for her."

Groll nearly groaned out loud. It was likely they were talking about the woman draped, still unconscious, over his shoulder. This was more than he wanted to deal with right now. Ever, really, if he was honest about it. _Women and trouble, always together_, he thought grimly. He turned and walked away, nearly silent despite his bulk and his burden. He didn't know what it was all about, but it seemed apparent that little about the situation was going to be anything he wanted to be involved with.

It was nearly morning when she finally stirred, groaning across the fire from him. He rolled over and looked at her, watching her take stock of her surroundings and her situation. The green glow of her eyes betrayed her in the waning darkness, even if her pale skin hadn't seemed to glow, itself. The blanket covered all but her slender shoulders and her face, a dark bruise stark on her cheek. Her dark hair spilled out across the blanket and the ground, a wild disarray of abandoned shadow. She was slender, with slight indication of muscle. And he'd noticed, in spite of himself, that her breasts weren't necessarily large, and were shaped rather like raindrops. Her hips curved gracefully and fully out from her slender waist.

Finally her eyes settled on him, and recognition, along with sudden pain as she tried to sit up, flashed across her face. She gasped behind the magical muzzle she still wore. She panted as she tried to deal with the pain, and he stood up in one easy motion. He walked up to her and knelt beside her. "I'll take it off, if you're going to behave yourself and not attack me." She stared at him silently, and he waited. Finally, she looked away, and he reached down and removed it, tossing it away.

Immediately, she muttered softly, and he felt power gathering up around her. He slammed his fist down suddenly against the ground, funneling anger into the blow. A shock of energy snapped out around him, slamming into her as if she'd been slapped. Her eyes widened in pain and surprise. "We can play this game all night. You've no protection from me if I decide to beat you senseless, so please, spare us both a lot of wasted time, and just stop."

Her voice was surprisingly low, soft, and quiet when she spoke. "I am well aware of my vulnerability, sir. I intended only to heal the terrible ache in my head." He blinked, surprised. So she was a priest or a paladin. He figured she must be a paladin, as she seemed a bit too bold for a priest. "May I?" He nodded and sat back.

Power gathered again, and she was bathed in a sparkling glow, relief showing clearly on her face as it moved across her. She sat up, awkward and obviously still in pain. He frowned. "I've little power left, so I guess I'm pretty harmless right now, anyway."

He threw his head back and laughed. "Lady, even at full power, I doubt you would scare me too very much." Her face betrayed a moment of anger, and she looked away.

"It's nearly dawn, but we're being followed, so we're going to get moving," he told her curtly. His earlier scouting had indicated that, despite him turning back, somehow the men in the alley had identified him enough to follow him and this woman, named Tracy Walker according to her papers.

"You can let me go, you know. I'm not who they say I am. I didn't sign those papers," her eyes beseeched him, and for a moment, he almost believed her. His better sense, of course, overtook him.

"How many of your fellow slaves do you think would say the same thing to escape taking responsibility for what they did when they signed such stupid papers?" he almost laughed as he asked it.

She sighed, "All of them, I suppose."

"Exactly. But you want me to believe you, and not them?" A wry look answered him well enough. She knew it was unrealistic, and so did he. Oh, she had signed those papers, all right.

He pulled the mount he'd bought for her over, a massive, dark gray worg. Picking her up, with her arms still tied behind her at the elbows and in front at the wrists (he was no fool, after all), he set her on the worg. Her bare skin was cool under his hands, so he turned and picked up the blanket she'd slept under. As he turned back to her, she was looking away from him, back into the direction of Orgrimmar. The sun shimmered off of her dark hair, making it gleam so that she seemed to have a halo. Fitting, he thought, for a paladin, though more so for a priest. Her skin glowed in the light of the rising sun, even more than it had in the gloom of the nighttime. He was surprised to feel the first stirrings of arousal as he looked at her there, with her legs wrapped around the worg, her hair falling around her, wearing only her underwear.

She looked at him then, and said it again, "You could let me go. They just want me, they don't care about you. They wouldn't bother you any further. But if you don't, they will hunt us both down."

He grinned suddenly. "You're not a very smart elf. You're more scared of a few trolls, than you are of an orc who has you in chains and nearly naked?" He was oddly gratified to see her first go even more white than she was (a feat in and of itself), then flood with color as he wrapped the blanket around her, purposely coming far too close to her crotch to be considered courteous. He had no intentions towards her, really, though he did have the right to do with her as he wished, at this point, legally. Not, of course, that the thought hadn't crossed his mind. He was a normal man, after all.

He mounted his own worg, and set off, the beast she rode following willingly behind at a snap of his fingers and a low whistle. They rode across the barrens towards Tanaris, which he hoped to reach within the next couple of days. After several hours of riding, his hand was aching, and he was hot and sweaty and dusty. He decided to stop at one of the small lakes- almost a pond, really- in the area. As they stopped, he picked her up and sat her on the ground. She groaned slightly, and he smirked at her. "Not used to riding, are you." She shook her head. "Shame, someone ought to get you used to it." He wasn't sure why he was baiting her so much, he really wanted to be quit of her, but he wasn't going to just throw her to the two-legged worgen that followed them still. He enjoyed the blush that she rewarded him with yet again, and began stripping for his bath.

He reached down and untied her. "Don't try it. Remember that I own you, and if you try to run off, and I beat you near death, no one will stop me." He stared at her intensely, making sure she realized he was quite serious. Not that he was, but it was necessary that she believe him, so he could get on his way peacefully. "Now, get up. You stink and you need a bath, too."

He slipped his greaves and his breeches off, enjoying the relief of being freed from the heavy armor. His red eyes watched her as she stood up, a bit slowly and painfully. A single spell later, and she walked towards the water with apparent comfort and ease. "So you're a paladin, are you?" he asked.

"I'm a priest," she said. Her low, sultry voice carried back to him like a falling leaf on the lightest of breezes. He followed her towards the water, oddly pleased by the revelation. A priest, indeed. He watched her hips sway unconsciously as she walked, and hoped he made it into the water before his attention was aroused in a more noticeable way. Once in the water, he doused the soap he held into the water, but winced as it touched the bite wound on his hand, which had reopened from the ride.

"You did this," he said suddenly, "you fix it." He held it out to her, anger rising in him. She'd actually bitten him! And not gently, but hard enough to make him bleed rather profusely. He looked at her, expecting a protest.

That was not, however, what he saw. She had taken off her underwear, and stood naked in the water. Instead of cleaning herself, though, she had stopped and was staring at him. His eyebrows rose as he looked at her. She was staring openly at his body, her eyes traveling across his chest. Her expression was oddly entranced, as a bird looking at something shiny it has found and hopes to steal. It was a look that he was very familiar with, but which he hadn't experienced turned upon himself before by any but an orc woman. He watched her look at him for a moment and stepped towards her.

Her eyes instantly snapped up to meet his. "I… what? I'm sorry, what did you say?" red flooded her face once again. Immediately, his body responded to her appraisal and her obvious embarrassment.

He stepped closer again, until he was standing mere inches from her. He held his hand out to her. "Fix it, priest." She blinked at the hand for a moment, and then began to cast.

It wasn't the first time, by many thousands of times, that he'd ever been Healed. It was, however, the first time it had felt so incredibly sensual, so incredibly erotic. It was as if her desire for him had translated into the magic she cast, the lust he'd seen in her face before she'd realized he'd seen it finding its outlet in the magic she cast. He felt it caress across his entire body, even whispering like a warm breath across his groin.

He groaned as he became immediately and almost painfully hard. Grabbing her around the waist, he pulled her against him. Water splashed around them, lapping against his chest, licking around her breasts like an eager puppy. He watched the light glitter off of those gleaming breasts, and couldn't stop himself. He lifted her and pulled her even closer, mindful of his tusks, as he licked the water off of one pink nipple.

He felt her resistance, but he didn't care. He grabbed her head, and held her still, gripping her hair in one powerful hand. "You're mine now, in case you've forgotten. I can do as I wish with you." His voice was harsh and graveled from his lust. He pulled her down then, positioning her against his erection. With a sudden, sharp thrust, he was inside her, the water buoying them slightly as he entered her. She uttered a sharp cry, her body jerking slightly. He thrust again, lost in the incredible feeling of her tightness around him. She twisted again, pushing against him, and he crushed her harder against him with one arm, reaching down to shift her butt, giving him a better angle to thrust more fully and deeply into her. He pushed her against the stone she'd been using a moment before to lean against, and thrust into her again and again. He buried his face against her neck, tasting dust, and water, and soft skin.

Water sloshed around them, and he felt her legs around him, her arms crushed between them. The soft sound of her breathing was fast but deep, driving his lust to higher levels. He fought to restrain himself as he drove into her, feeling her soft folds separating as he slipped into them again and again. He knew his strength could injure her, but he was so intensely aroused by her that it took every ounce of control he had not to drive her too hard against the stone. Finally, he felt his orgasm building, and with one last grunt, he thrust into her yet again. As he released inside her, a growl started low in his throat and escaped just as he reached the peak of his orgasm.

He leaned back, his intensity beginning to fade in the aftermath of the powerful release he'd found within her. He looked at her, and found her looking down and away from him. Slowly, it began to dawn on him that he had just raped her. That he'd treated her like a slave that he'd bought and paid for. He had dishonored himself, and her. And he should be sorry. He should be very sorry, in fact. He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to be sorry. But even as he felt himself beginning to slowly soften inside of her, he knew he wanted to do it again more than he wanted to be sorry.

He decided, though, then and there, that he wouldn't. He wouldn't do it again, to any woman, ever. No matter how much he wanted to. And he did want to. He felt silken hair brush across his arm under the water, and he pulled her close to him. She lay against him, passive, quiet, not responding and not resisting. He tried several times to apologize, but couldn't. He struggled to get his emotions under control. He was an orc; he wasn't supposed to feel like this. The warm, even tender feeling that suffused him shouldn't be there. He had enjoyed the company of many women in his life; it should be simple to walk away from this one. Except that now he not only owned her, he also owed her.

As he felt himself slip out of her, he moved away from the stone he'd backed her against for stability, and lifted her off of him by the waist. Silently, he handed her the soap, and got out of the water. When he looked back, she was quietly washing herself, still not looking at him. When she was finished, she walked out of the water, gathering her underwear and putting it back on. He silently handed her the bag of clothes. Having put on his own armor again already, he waited in silence while she dressed, pulling the robe over her head and letting it slip down to hug the curves he still wanted to touch and caress.

He brought the worg to her, and she mounted in obedient silence. Her eyes avoided his, but he felt her tremble as he helped her up. He felt himself stir at the knowledge that she was trembling still from having him inside her, and he gritted his teeth, trying to suppress the surging desire that should not have returned so soon. He stalked over to his own worg, mounting smoothly. They set off, with him watching behind them at regular intervals. The trio behind had made up a lot of ground during the time he'd stopped and allowed himself to be distracted by pale skin and dark hair.

He decided to find out, once and for all, why they were being followed. "Tracy?" She didn't answer, obviously lost in thought. "Tracy?" He repeated it, sharper, louder. She ignored him. Suddenly angry, he rode closer to her, until their legs nearly touched. "Tracy!" he snapped. She looked up and blinked at him stupidly. Irritation swelled, "What the hell is the matter with you? I've called you three times now!"

"My name," she said coolly, stressing the word 'name' sharply, "is Shantille. Perhaps if you called me by my name, I would be quicker to respond to you." The look on her face was colder than the Borean Tundra at night.

Now it was his turn to blink stupidly. Then his confusion cleared. Of course she would make up something that would dispute what the papers said. He might do the same in her circumstances. "Yes, I'm sure, Tracy Walker. And I'm sure that no other slave has ever made up a name when they have new owners." He chuckled at her.

To his surprise, though, she threw her head back suddenly and laughed. It carried easily over the padding of their mounts' feet, a surprisingly clear and elegantly cheerful sound. Her eyes glowed a deeper green as she looked back at him. "A human name, orc? Are you an imbecile? Do you really believe that we name our children human names?" She shook her head with another chuckle, then dismissed him as surely as he had ever been dismissed, her attention passing away from him and back to the small metal bar she held in her hands.

They rode in silence for a moment as his mind churned. It really did sound like a human name. It was a very human name, in fact, and the humans in particular seemed to get themselves into these foolish slave agreements often. And the woman across from him seemed very unlikely to have needed such an agreement. She seemed self-assured, her posture elegant even for an elf, her face calm and clear despite what should be truly harrowing events over the past few days. Her hands were steady even as they rode, and the robe she wore bore high magic sigils, too powerful to be worn by any but the most accomplished of magic-users. It was the first time he had studied her closely, and a sick feeling began to settle into his gut. Falsified papers, she had probably been kidnapped. It wasn't unlikely, the more he studied her and the situation.

Lost in his thoughts, he studied her more closely as they rode. Her face had the same angularity that all elves shared, but hers was softer than most, her lips small, delicate, and dark in her pale face. The dark brown hair that fell to her waist was touched with glimmers of red in the sunlight, and dark, long lashes surrounded her eyes. The long eyebrows that flickered, feather-like, from her forehead were not as dark as the hair on her head, and her ears were long and pointed as all blood elves' were. She wore large hoops of gold, and he wondered for a moment why the slavers hadn't removed them, as well. Then he realized she had taken them from a pocket of her gown. It occurred to him that she must have been sleeping when she was taken.

The thought brought him back to the idea that she had been kidnapped. Some things had begun to make sense to him. Perhaps the slavers that were employed to capture her had sold her when those who had commissioned them were late to arrive to acquire her? Given the events of the previous evening, he had no doubt that she had given them no end of trouble. He chuckled, _trouble and women, always together. _She glanced up at him when he chuckled, and he met her eyes with a smirk.

But the problem with all of this was, he didn't know for sure. He didn't know any of it for sure. Then he thought sourly of the money that he'd spent already on this misadventure. Although he could afford it, it really was a significant amount of money. And for what? He grimaced then, realizing exactly what he had bought. He'd bought a kidnapped woman and raped her. He slammed his fist hard against his leg, what had he been thinking? The plate armor clanged in the relative quiet of their journey, and he heard her gasp.

Her response startled him from his reverie, and he realized immediately his error. Like a foolish recruit, he had lost track of the enemy. He reached out and grabbed the reins of her mount, jerking his own to a halt, as well. His sharp eyes studied the terrain, finding no rising dust that would indicate pursuit. No small figures in the distance that he could make out as anything besides wildlife or trees. Turning abruptly, his sword seemed to naturally appear in his hand, so accustomed was he to the gesture that brought it forth from the scabbard. The shield seemed to leap just as naturally into his other hand. He was dismounted before it was even withdrawn, eyes seeking, ears straining to hear any sound that would betray their pursuers.

She dropped quietly to the ground, as well, moving towards him. It was clear that his wariness had translated itself to her, and she appeared as guarded as he was. A soft glow of magic surrounded her suddenly, with only the slightest gesture of her fingers. Moments passed, and silence hung over them, accompanied only by the dust they'd raised, which swirled lazily in the afternoon stillness. Heat waves shimmered, distorting the landscape around them. Their breathing was loud, magnified by the silent placidity of the area.

He expected them to simply come take what they wanted, to try to kill him and take her from him that way. Instead, they stepped out of the shadows of the trees and bushes, one at a time. Three of them, all stooped and gnarled. The first unconsciously tapped on his left tusk with a finger. The second was the bluest troll he'd seen in a very long time, and the third was smaller, nervous, almost rabbity. They eased out of the shadows, Tappy standing nearest.

"We'll be takin' da woman now, mon," Tappy said, apparently the leader of the three. Groll studied Tappy's clothing, trying to find something that would betray their purpose or their background. There was nothing, he seemed simply an ordinary troll.

"I bought her, she belongs to me," Groll said. "If you be takin' her, you'll be stealing."

"We pays you well, mon. More'n ye be payin' fer her," Tappy pulled a coin purse out, and it was clear it held quite a bit more than Groll had paid for her. Tappy tossed it to Rabbity, who plucked it from the air, scampering forward slightly towards Groll.

Groll's sword swung towards Rabbity, an unconscious gesture, and the troll stopped. "I'm not finished with her," Groll said, "and I won't be selling her until I am."

"Well, mon, then we be takin' 'er, if ye be givin' us no othuh choices." The three trolls drew weapons, and started to circle. The sound of the woman's magical shield renewing tinkled behind him, closer now, but not so close that it would interfere with the battle. He was pleased to know she wasn't taking the opportunity to run. It was very unlikely that she would get very far, anyway.

It started very simply, really. Blue rushed him, and the force of his charge left Groll stunned for a second. With a 'thwap thwap,' Tappy planted twisted-looking, gnarled totems into the loose sand. Out of the corner of his eye, Groll saw a flash of magic, and the first of the totems was incinerated with a golden glow of holy magic. The elf was eliminating them, and Groll grinned grimly. She at least had the good sense to know that, whatever fate these trolls intended for her, it was probably far worse than the worst he'd done to her.

Groll parried a thrust from Blue, slamming his shield hard against Blue's sword arm, causing him to stumble and pause. Seeing Rabbity trying to sneak behind him, Groll channeled the force of his anger into his powerful legs, and slammed down onto the ground with his full force. The shockwave drove out from him, stunning all three of their attackers. Interestingly enough, he vaguely noticed that the elf had unconsciously attuned herself to him, and didn't even notice the energy as it snapped past her.

As the first healing wave carried across Blue, Groll decided it was time to eliminate Tappy. With a roar, he charged into Tappy, slamming him hard against the tree he was standing in front of. The groaning thud of his body as it struck was gratifying and filled Groll with a twisted sort of pleasure.

He recognized the new incantation the elf chanted, and knew that soon the shaman would run out of stored Power as she turned his own power against him, burning him, consuming him with it. The shaman stumbled forwards towards Groll as the spell hit him, but rallied quickly. Lightning crackled, and Groll felt it flash across his skin painfully, Tappy's spell pulled energy from the environment to burn into skin and muscle. Parrying just in time as Blue's sword attempted to bite through his leg armor, Groll slammed his shield against Tappy, driving him to his knees and interrupting the painful lightning that ate at Groll's body and concentration. He felt searing agony as Rabbity found enough of an opening in his armor to sink a dagger painfully into the flesh of his shoulder.

With a wrench, he freed himself from it, and turned upon Rabbity with a frenzied rage. His shield lifted, describing a slow, nearly leisurely arc through the air before it struck Rabbity full in the chest, the crunching of bone and the abrupt exhalation of air reward enough for Groll for the moment as Rabbity staggered backwards, his eyes staring, startled, into Groll's for an instant.

Content that it would take a moment for the rogue to recover, Groll returned to the important business of dispatching Tappy, his arm and shoulder burning still from the deep dagger wound. Unexpectedly, he felt the Healing. It was not the same feeling as before, it was a familiar feeling. The magic washed over him, and the pain in his shoulder was gone, the bruise on his leg magically soothed and then forgotten. This battle seemed less impossible suddenly, and a surge of glee flickered through him. He threw his head back, and roared his delight to the heavens. _This_, he thought then, _is going to be fun_. He had an ally in the elf, for however long. And thus he could simply enjoy the feeling of his weapon against flesh, enjoy the power of his body, and feel the joy of communing with shield and weapon and armor.

His shout had demoralized them, and he knew it. Rabbity, to his surprise, turned and took off. He threw a knife at the retreating back, and saw Rabbity stumble, but keep going. Ducking Blue's wild swing, he drove his sword into the chest of the shaman, the leather not able to stop it. Groll watched impassively as blood spilled out of Tappy's mouth, and he slumped forward. With a jerk that ground against bone and brought flesh tearing away with it, Groll freed the sword just in time to stop the blow intended for his head.

Now it was just he and Blue, and the pulsing of magic that soothed his muscles every few seconds. Filled now with confidence, even arrogance, Groll slammed his shield hard against Blue's, and was gratified to hear the snapping of bones. The troll's shield now dangled uselessly, and Groll pushed his advantage. With a powerful twist, he slipped his sword towards the vulnerable underarm of the troll. He was displeased when the troll managed to parry the blow, their weapons sparking off of each other. But the parry left the troll open, only for an instant.

An instant was all Groll needed. He used his shield like a weapon, bringing that up under the troll's arm, instead. The shoulder snapped with a sickening crunch, and Groll's sword flashed up over the ruined shoulder, nearly severing the troll's head from his body. Slowly, so slowly, Blue toppled forward, blood damping the ground he landed on before he even reached it.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

Groll groaned, stretching painfully. The battle had lasted longer than he realized, and through the attunement that they still shared, he realized suddenly that the elf's Power reserves were gone almost entirely. He moved away from the scene of the battle, and began to pull off his armor. He didn't like to leave the blood and bits of bone on it, as it would begin to stink in the sun. Besides, the rumor that orcs bathed in blood and never bathed in any other fashion was simply children's tales. In point of fact, most orcs were rather fastidious, and he was no exception.

He said nothing when she began to help him remove his armor. Delicate, small hands made short work of buckles, and he easily, though sometimes painfully, lifted the armor off of himself. Pulling out the large satchel of cleaning water he'd gathered from the pond- water that was too dirty to drink, but not too dirty to clean with- he began the laborious process of cleaning it. She helped him in companionable silence, though he noticed that she studiously kept her eyes averted from him.

When he was finished with his armor, he pulled the tunic off over his head, pouring water over his dark red hair. He undid the two neat braids he kept the front hair in, and poured water through it until it ran clean. He cleaned his face, and began to clean his chest. Then, though, a light, small hand stopped his hand. He looked up at her, and she looked back at him, silent and direct. He surrendered the washcloth silently, and looked away. He felt her running the washcloth across his back, repeatedly rinsing it and cleaning more, methodic, impersonal.

Then the cloth touched his shoulders, and she began to clean his left arm. It was then that he began to feel the first stirring of lust again. He clenched his fist and his jaw, fighting the rising tide of his desire for her. Her hands ran down the length of one arm, then the other, every inch of each cleaned gently, thoroughly. Soon, she was finished, and she stood in front of him. As she knelt down in font of him, rinsing the cloth in the water, he looked down at her. There, kneeling at his feet, she looked so small, so helpless, so vulnerable. His reaction was instinctive, raw, primal, and powerful. A surge of lust flickered through him so hard he groaned, his erection springing to full, arrogant life, uncaring if she noticed, or not.

She stood up, and he realized that she still looked small, slight, slender… vulnerable. The washcloth touched his skin again, and he looked down at the small hand that held it. The contrast of her pale white skin against his dark, dusky green hide enhanced the difference between them, and he felt some of his lust cool. Yes, they were very different, too different. He shouldn't even be looking at, or thinking about, any elf in this way. She would never willingly give him what he wanted, and he couldn't take it again- should never have taken it to begin with.

He grasped her hand, his grip nearly crushing her small hand. Her wince away from his grip reminded him, and he eased up. "I will do it." His voice was low and harsh, betraying his state of arousal. She looked up at him, her gaze still direct, but not rebellious.

"If that will please you," she said simply.

His eyes narrowed, and he held her firmly by the hand still. "Why are you doing this?"

"I'm a priest, orc. I have been a priest for nearly all of my long life. Many priests simply learn the basics of magical Power, and go on their way. I have remained a priest, and continue to study, and I follow the way of the Priest as a lifestyle, not simply as a path to Power. It is the higher path of the Priest that teaches the true Power." She fell silent, and he pondered her words for a moment.

"I don't understand. What does that have to do with what you are doing right now?" he struggled to piece it together, a heavy frown furrowing his brow.

"True Power, beyond what most will ever wield, is in service," she said.

He threw back his head and laughed suddenly. "You've been fooled, Priest. Someone wanted to use you, and taught you this foolish nonsense in order to cuckold you into doing his bidding. Clever, I say, very clever."

"You may call me a fool, orc, but it is because so few people understand the power of service that it becomes even more powerful than it is on its own," her face remained calm, smooth, betraying no emotion.

He shrugged then, "well, if it's some sort of religious thing for you, far be it from me to stop you from fondling me." He smirked as she reddened at the comment, but he released her and let her go back to her work.

She cleaned his chest, her hands running across his chest, and then his belly, interspersed with kneeling to rinse the cloth or refresh the dirty water with clean. He found it to be a special sort of hell, as his erection strained to be free—free not only from his pants, but also free to find its way inside her again.

Finally, she was done cleaning his chest and belly. He crossed his arms and looked up at her as she stood in front of him now. A slight frown furrowed her brow. He grinned. She had arrived at the point where the breeches he wore under his armor hindered her progress.

"You will need to take those off and stand up, please," she said, her soft voice even quieter than usual.

He stood and leaned forward, his face now only inches from hers, "if you want my breeches off, take them off yourself," he said, holding her gaze for a long moment. Red suffused her face again, and she blinked at him.

"You're very ugly, do you know that?"

He threw his head back and laughed. "Yeah, I know that. Is that the best you can come up with?

"You came up with this whole 'service' business—which I rather like, may I add, especially certain services- not me. So now you can take my breeches off at your own risk." Quite satisfied with himself, he smirked down at her. She would give up this nonsense, and he could clean himself in relative peace—and take care of other things in the process, before he lost his good sense again.

He was surprised, almost startled, then, when she reached out and untied the leather tie on his breeches. He grabbed her wrists and growled at her, "Are you crazy, woman? Just how much do you think I can take?" He was angry now, what kind game was she playing, anyway?

She blinked, startled at his reaction. "I'm trying to help you!" she cried in response. Then, "You're hurting me." He eased his grip on her wrists, but pulled her so that she stumbled against him.

Releasing one arm, he grabbed her waist and pulled her hard against his erection. "Do you think that helps me? Do you think it helps to make me want to fuck you so badly that I can barely control myself?"

"I'm sorry, that wasn't my intention," her voice was soft, airy. He felt her breathing speed up, the robe she wore exposing enough cleavage that he could watch the crests of her breasts begin to rise and fall rapidly. Her hand, recently released, lay against his chest, light and cool and soft. He thought about pushing her away. He really did. He wanted to, before he lost control.

"I've never had an elf all over me the way you are before, I don't really know how to handle it," he said coldly and let go, letting her move away. He couldn't push her away himself, but he had enough willpower left to let her do it herself.

Pushing away from him hard, she stood trembling, anger now written in every line of her body. "I was not 'all over' you! I was helping you clean up. You did save me, after all. It seemed like the right thing to do."

"Yeah, lady. Looking at a man like he's a side of clefthoof that you're sizing up for eating, and then running your hands all over his body is always the 'right thing to do' if you want to drive him beyond the brink of his self control." He advanced on her, one step, then two. She slowly backed away as he moved towards her.

"I'm not afraid of you," she said. She met his eyes, defiantly, angrily.

"Then you're stupid," he said, advancing another step. "I've already raped you once, there's no one and nothing stopping me from doing it again."

"But that was before," she said.

"Before what? Before you were fondling me like a newborn calf?"

She swallowed reflexively, "Before you realized I'm not the person on those papers, before you realized that I'm not the one that signed that agreement, before…"

"I have no proof of that, only what you say. You claim your parents wouldn't name you a human name, but you have no proof of that. There are many elves with human names; it was fashionable for a while with your kind. Why should I, or anyone else, believe you?" He had nearly convinced himself, even. How could he be sure, after all?

She backed away from him again, stumbling over a fallen sapling. Moving quickly, he caught her, pulled her against his body. "You said you would clean me? So clean me, woman." He let go of her, and walked back over to where the basin of water sat. He dumped the water and refreshed it, then turned to face her. He finished unstrapping the breeches, and then slid them down, taking his underclothing with it. He stood naked in front of her, and said, "Go ahead, you're the one who wanted to do this, so do it." She swallowed reflexively again, and he crossed his arms.

She walked up silently, and picked up the washcloth. Starting in the back, she began to wash him. He felt her run the washcloth across his buttocks, one hand resting on his hip. He fought to control the lust that burned him, wishing he hadn't decided to test her this way, or himself. He should have done it himself and let her go. But he wanted to test her resolve.

As she began to progress down his legs, one hand holding on, the other working the cloth, he began to notice that she was following the line of his muscles. He struggled not to look down, not to watch. Her touch was arousing him even more, though he already felt as if just a breeze could cause him to release. But nothing stirred the hot desert air, besides the sloshing of water as she cleaned the cloth. Every ounce of his concentration and focus was caught up in the touch of this small woman. As she cleaned his inner thigh from behind, he felt her come alarmingly close to touching his manhood, and dug his hands into his arms to prevent the growl that tried to escape. Finally, her hands moved away, and she cleaned his calves.

Then she picked up the cloth, and came around in front of him again. He looked down at her, knowing that his scowl made his normally brutish face even harsher, but he couldn't help himself. She looked like she was waiting for him to say something, but he simply stared at her, instead. She sighed, and knelt down again. He had to grip his arms again, fiercely, to stop himself from taking her, then and there.

When she stood up, the first touch of the washcloth on the skin just about the hair at the base of his manhood made him suck in his breath, sharply, deeply. She hesitated for a moment, but then, undaunted, continued. He knew she had expected him to say that he would clean himself there, but he refused to say it. She washed the front of his legs now, once more coming close to him, but never quite touching him. Her hands followed the lines of the muscles still, and he felt the caressing, sensual quality of it. It was the same sensuality that had marked her look, and then her Healing, earlier in the day. Finally, she was done with every part of him, except his manhood.

She stopped then, and held out the washcloth. "I think you should do the rest, yourself," she said. Her voice was low, deepened by her own visible lust, her breathing still fast, but deep. They stood that way for a moment, before she finally looked up, green glowing eyes meeting deep red ones.

"How about, 'no'," he said, looking her straight in the face as he said it.

She blushed again, quite deeply, "It… I… I shouldn't… You…It wouldn't be appropriate for me… you ought to do it." She said, and he enjoyed her complete discomfiture.

"You stutter, do you know that?" he said, mocking her earlier comment to him. She had the good grace to look embarrassed, and looked down.

"Yes, I know, I… I do it when… I do it sometimes." She stepped away from him.

"So, you only serve the way you want to, as much as you want to, but if it gets tough, you run off?" He was baiting her again, and really should have let it go. But as torturous as it was to be so aroused, it was a sweet sort of torture that begged to be prolonged, perhaps just a moment more. Yes, just a moment more. He would go take care of it then, he swore to himself. He would relieve himself out of her sight somewhere, and all would be well.

She straightened, and nodded. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine."

"Fine, then." He smirked.

She picked up the washcloth, and looked at his erect penis for a moment, as if considering how to proceed in the least arousing manner possible. Finally, she reached out and began to wash him, starting at the tip of his manhood, and working towards the base. Really, it was pointless, and Groll knew it. No blood had saturated that deeply into his breeches, but he ignored that fact, and relished the feeling of her hands, however impersonal she tried to make them be, on him. He clenched again as the washcloth slipped down and as his testicles were cupped by a hand nearly too small to encompass them. Throughout the whole process, he maintained his control.

But then she saw it, the old scar that ran up the underside of his penis. And the look on her face shocked him. It wasn't a look of surprise, or horror- those he was used to. She wasn't repulsed, she wasn't disgusted. It was a look such as he had never seen before. An infinite sorrow, a deep tenderness crossed her face. It wasn't pity; it was something deeper, more real, more sincere. It was completely unexpected, new, and even confusing.

It was also his undoing. Something in him snapped, and he grabbed her by the upper arms. In a gesture so automatic he wasn't even aware of it, one of his legs swept hers from under her, and they were on the ground, him controlling their fall with his powerful legs and back, so that as she landed, he was kneeling over her. With a snarl, he flipped her over, yanking the skirt of her robe up. In some distant part of him, he registered the fact that she didn't resist, but it was a vague realization, dim and not a part of his awareness.

Because his awareness was caught up in the feel of her, the scent of her as he tugged her panties aside. The recent battle was forgotten, their surroundings, forgotten. The world was just him, and the woman beneath him. He felt wetness as he positioned himself against her entrance, and shoved in without resistance of any kind. He thrust into her, watching himself slide into her, looking at the contrast of his hands on her hips, and the pale white of her perky rump. Then watching himself slide in and out of her pink folds, feeling their tightness around him, enjoying the slightly musky scent of sex that rose into the air.

Letting go of one hip, he slid his hand around in front of her, across the plane of her belly, to the mound between her legs. Sliding his fingers into the folds of skin there, he continued thrusting into her, short, quick thrusts now. He searched for a moment, until he found what he was looking for, and began to flick his finger across her clitoris. He felt her body jerk, and a bit of liquid dripped onto his thick fingers, running down his hand in a small trail. He grinned suddenly as her body twitched and she moaned. Flickering faster, he began to shift his hips back and forth, his grin widening as he felt her body respond reflexively. As her breathing quickened, he withdrew his hand and returned his attention to watching himself going in and out of her tight, silken vaginal entrance. With a grunt, he began to speed up, shifting her so that his penis would grind against the top of her where she was most sensitive inside.

It wasn't long before his efforts were rewarded in exactly the way he had intended. Her body trembled, then clenched, he saw her hand grip hard on the washcloth she still held, unaware of the fact. He felt her grip harder on his penis, as well, the walls of her vaginal tunnel seeming to grasp him, over and over again as her body arched involuntarily. Finally, he let himself join her as he felt her begin to wind down. With another growl, he quickened his pace until he found his own release, grinding against her as he sought to orgasm as deeply inside her as possible.

Slipping out of her, he rolled down to the ground beside her, and pulled her against his side. She lay against him, passive, quiet. Her hand lay on his chest; her head nestled on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Looking down at her, he put his other arm under his head, making it easier to look at her. "What?"

"I'm sorry," she repeated. Her hand slid across his chest, and across his belly, down to his still-erect penis. She traced the scar there, "I'm sorry for what happened to you- to the orcs. We should have helped. We should have known. I'm sorry."

He blinked and swallowed, at a loss for what to say. He pulled her closer to him, and wrapped his arms around her. Soon, they would have to get a move on, as he had no doubt that next time, there would be more coming than just three. It was probably neither coincidence nor cowardice that caused Rabbity to run off in the middle of the fight when he couldn't be stopped. Yes, they would have to move soon… but not just yet. He tightened his grip on the elf- his elf- for a moment, and lay there with her in the sun for a time.

With her help, small deft fingers making short work of the buckles that so often irritated him, he shrugged his armor back on. Then, standing up, he walked over to look over the corpses, with a certain degree of distaste. Rifling the bodies, he found absolutely nothing that would tell him anything worthwhile. It all seemed to be standard junk, nothing he wanted, nothing informative, and nothing worth even picking up to take up space until he reached a town and could hawk it.

He looked over and noticed Shantille doing the same thing. She picked up a piece of food, and sniffed it delicately. Her face went white and she turned away from him. He heard the muffled sounds of her retching. He grinned a bit wryly. It took either a strong stomach- or a troll, to eat pretty much anything that trolls ate. And apparently, she didn't have the first, and as he could attest, she wasn't even close to the second. She straightened up, and calmly went back to her work. He nodded, unsurprised. She seemed to be singularly unflappable in many ways.

"Nothing," she said after a time. "Absolutely nothing." He heard confusion and exasperation in her voice. "What do they want from me? I just don't get it."

He shrugged, no more enlightened than she was by his own search. "Who are you? Are you from a moneyed family? What's your background?" Perhaps there were clues in her background that even she wouldn't realize.

She shook her head. "I'm no one, really. Average in every way. I'm not from a line of any significance to anyone. No royal blood nonsense, no special skills, I'm not famous, and I'm probably the wealthiest one in our family. There's no logical reason that I can come up with for this pursuit."

He shook his head, and ran a hand through his hair, reminded that he hadn't rebraided it. Moving lithely, he walked over to a small group of stones, and sat down on the largest one. He began to run his fingers through the right braid, when she sat down beside him. She put her hand gently on top of his to stop his movement. "Let me help?" He nodded, and pulled out a hard, coarse piece of bread. He absently ate while she braided first one side, then the other. By the time she was done, so was he, and he stood with a single, smooth motion. He reached out to her to help her up from the stone she sat on. The distressed look on her face surprised him, and his eyebrows lifted in question. She shook her head, and her face cleared. "It's nothing." He shrugged and let it go, whistling for their mounts.

They had been riding for some time, when she broke the companionable silence that had existed between them since they'd left the scene of the fight. "I don't know your name."

Suddenly, he found that remarkably funny. "You never asked," he chuckled. "Don't you think you should have asked that before you jumped my bones, not once, but twice?" Then he began to laugh full out. His amusement bubbled up and spilled out, and he was unable to regain control over himself for a long moment. Finally, he stopped laughing long enough to look at her.

Her face was amused, but she wasn't quite smiling. Laughter lurked at the corners of her mouth and wrinkled the corners of her eyes, but didn't quite translate into a full smile. "I'm not sure that I'd put it…" she paused, "quite…" she paused again, the flicker of an elegant eyebrow upwards, "…that way." Now she did smile, her eyes glowing with the intense green of amusement.

"Groll, at your service, ma'am," he said, with a mocking half-bow, a purposeful stress on 'service,' accompanied with a smirk and a suggestive ogle of her breasts.

"Groll," she repeated, though when she said it, the L sound at the end seemed to roll off of her tongue for a long moment, hanging in the air between them before dissipating into the still desert air. The odd inflection on his name made it sound unfamiliar, new, not something he'd worn casually for his whole life. He sobered, the soft sound of his name replaying itself in his mind for a moment. She had changed everything, and now even this simple, mundane thing seemed different. He wanted to hear her say it again, but said nothing.

"So, how much did you buy me for?" she asked, her face impassive.

"Thirty-two hundred gold," he grunted.

"What!" her exclamation surprised him. "That's it?" Her eyes blazed nearly white now, indignation clear on her face. "That's positively insulting!" He couldn't help it, he started to laugh again.

"So glad to know you don't mind being sold, as long as the price is right," he managed to grunt between laughing fits. Her eyebrows climbed up in a slow arc, then she too began to chuckle, finally laughing nearly as hard as he was.

"Good point," was all she said, before settling into silence after her giggles subsided. They rode on companionably into the afternoon heat.

As evening approached, and he still saw no sign of pursuit, Groll decided that they could stop for the evening. Logic dictated that, since they were following a predictable path, an ambush would wait ahead of them, thus while he would be fully wary, he doubted that they would be attacked here. Trolls weren't entirely stupid, just irritating. Such a mistake was unlikely, therefore, although if the enemy managed to get enough numbers up, it wouldn't matter where they attacked.

Building the fire, he watched her as she prepared herself for the night. He suddenly felt unsure of how to approach her. Despite their earlier encounters, he wanted her again already, but knew that unless she was used to regular sex, it was unlikely. By this point, she should be reasonably sore, and he knew from long experience that there were certain things that even magic couldn't heal. So he just watched her, as she helped him out of his gear, and as she changed into tunic and light cloth sleeping breeches. He tossed his bedroll down, and lay down on it, on his back, hands under his head. He looked up at the stars, wanting to feel her warm body against his as the cool of the night began to settle into him, but confused as to how to invite her to come and share his bed.

He wasn't sure just when he'd fallen asleep, but the soft footsteps and the slight whisper of fabric awoke him in the darkness of the night. It was most likely the wee hours of the morning, to his best estimate, without taking the time to tell for sure. He tensed and listened, then slowly turned his head. He saw, in the slight glow of the dying embers of the fire, Shantille moving around the camp quietly. He frowned, what was she doing? Moving only his head, he watched her, the green glow of her eyes uncanny and almost sinister in the dark night, bright embers of a dying, unholy fire.

As he watched, she knelt down beside his armor and packs. He scowled, preparing to leap out of the bedroll. He felt anger flare up, white and hot, inside of him. He had been completely taken in by her. Then he turned the anger in on himself. She'd made no promises, she'd made no attempts to gain his favor, he'd made the choices he had on his own. Suddenly, though, his anger cooled, doused by the water of realization. She had pulled back the hem of her dress, and was quietly withdrawing coins. He watched as she quietly laid them on his gear, careful that not the least tinkle of metal against metal could betray her. Straightening, she moved away, the skirt falling to appear unruffled and undisturbed. If he hadn't seen what he had, he would have no idea she carried gold there.

She then turned, and walked nearly silently towards the path towards Camp Taurajo. Rising silently, he padded after her. He let her get only a few feet before he sprinted up to her, grasping her waist and clamping a hard, calloused hand over her mouth. He let her struggle in panic for a moment before leaning down. "Just where did you think you were going?" He released her, towering over her in the darkness, a dark bulk in a black night.

"I am going to Camp Tuarjaro," she said, her voice soft and quiet, nearly a whisper as well.

He leaned back down to her, "Why? Do you really not realize that you're not safe, that most likely an ambush waits ahead?"

Distress flickered across her face. "I need to go to town!"

"You don't need to go right now, we'll go in the morning."

"I can't wait for morning," she said, her voice half pleading, half demanding.

"Why ever not? What are you risking your life for?"

He was shocked to see a tear run down her cheek, the path of it gleaming for a second in the spare light from the moons overhead. She turned away, but not before he saw it. Her voice was so quiet when she spoke that even his keen ears strained to hear it, "I'm so hungry!"

"What? You can't be serious, can you? Why didn't you just ask me, woman? Are you insane?" What was the matter with her? Suddenly he realized that he'd eaten that morning before she rose, and he'd eaten while she tended to him, but not once had he thought to offer anything to her. He was so used to traveling with people who were prepared that he'd neglected to realize that her circumstances had left her bereft of the ability to feed her self or see to most of her basic needs. He swore aloud, infuriated with him self and with her.

"It's not that simple," she said, and he heard indignation and consternation in her voice. "You hit me, then you tied me up like livestock, then you practically raped me, and then you pretty much raped me again. I hardly think I was in any position to make demands, do you?" her voice had started to rise, anger or hysteria dancing in the sharp edges of it. He was taken aback by her direct, and painfully honest assessment of the events of the day prior. It cut across him like a knife, slicing into his sense of honor and duty with a cruel clarity that hurt like the lash of a whip.

"Come on," he said. Dragging her by her wrist, he thrust a crust of bread into her hands, pushing her down on the ground to eat. To his surprise, and even vague disgust, she began to eat so fast that she barely chewed before swallowing. Suddenly it dawned on him, and he grabbed her arm and stopped her. She looked at him in near panic. "Not so fast…"

Her face went white, and her eyes widened. She turned away from him and began to retch again. "… or you'll be sick." His voice trailed off and he sighed. "When's the last time you ate?"

She turned back to him, cleaning her face with the cloth he held out to her. "Three days ago. Maybe four. I'm not sure. Maybe longer." Her stomach interrupted with a loud growl. Having tasted food again, it both rejected it, and wanted more.

He handed her back a small bit of the bread. "Eat it. Chew. Chew thoroughly." He watched her tremble as she reached out and took it, eating it slowly as he had instructed, swallowing hard. Her eyes never left his as she chewed, methodically, calmly. He handed her a flask of pure water. "One mouthful, no more." He allowed her to eat only a small amount.

When she was done, he watched her eyelids start to droop. Picking her up, he pulled her robe off, impartially, without sexual intonations. Then he laid her down on his bedroll, and curled up against her, spooning her with his body. Her head lay on one of his arms, and he wrapped the other around her, pulling her snugly against him. "There will be no more running away tonight, kitten," he said softly, and listened to her breathing until he joined her in sleep.

The next morning, Groll woke up to movement against him. He grinned as Shantille yawned and stirred to wakefulness. She turned to face him, and he heard her stomach growl again. He sobered immediately. "Listen, I should have realized you would be hungry and have no food, I…" His voice trailed off as she laid one hand very softly over his mouth with a soft shushing sound.

"No need for that. It's done, and I've exercise to do before I can eat this morning." She moved away from him then, rising easily to her feet.

"Well, I'll just wait here, then," he called to her back as she walked away from him. He sighed and crossed his arms behind his head again, a familiar and comfortable posture for him. He watched her walk away out of the corner of his eye, and then paid far more attention when he saw what she was doing. Standing still for a moment, she began to do an odd sort of dance like movement. He watched her for some time, enjoying the steady grace of the movements. Somehow, she looked peaceful, at ease, comfortable as she did it. He wondered how it was even considered exercise. Yet, she was in seeming constant movement, and he supposed that it could logically be considered exercise, as long as the motion was continuous.

He noticed, though, that watching her was having two seemingly opposing effects on him. It seemed to calm and relax him, the graceful movements making him almost feel as if he were swaying, himself. Yet it also aroused him to see her slender form in breeches and a tunic, the sunlight shimmering through the fabric to outline her body. After a while, he slowly got up and padded on quiet, bare feet to stand behind her. Stepping close, he placed one hand on each of her hips. As she stopped, he leaned forward to brush against the line of her slender neck with his lips, letting his tusk, filed to be curved instead of sharp as most filed theirs to be, brush lightly against her cheek.

This time, though, he didn't push her. He waited for a response from her, and when, after only a moment's hesitation, she leaned back against him, he let one hand slide up beneath her tunic. His right hand slid up across her belly and brushed her ribs, until it reached her left breast. He pulled her more snugly back against him, and cupped the heavy breast in his hand. The skin there was soft, the breast pliable, and he felt her nipple tighten immediately in response to his touch. As he gripped it, not ungently, between his fingers, her sharp intake of breath betrayed her own arousal, and he let go of her hip with his other hand, slipping that hand forward, and down the front of her breeches.

As he reached the sweet spot his hand was seeking, he let one finger slide into her softness, noticing, to his pleasure, that she was already wet there. He breathed in the combined scents of dusty air, feminine sweat, and the scents of their arousal. As he explored deeper into her, he felt her breathing speed up and deepen. He flicked his one finger over her clitoris, while his other hand began to knead more firmly on her breast. He felt a burst of dampness on his lower hand, and growled with pleasure- a light, low sound that brought a gasp from her.

He turned her around then, abandoning his treasures in favor of facing her towards him. He looked into her eyes, and she stared directly back at him. He ran his hands up and down her back for a moment, and realized that if he were to tell her how much he regretted his treatment of her, now would be the best time. In a completely uncharacteristic gesture, he knelt down in front of her, now looking up at her instead of the opposite.

"I think you should know… the way I've treated you so far, I…" he trailed off as she placed both hands on the side of his face. He steeled himself to hear her reprimand him, or make idle platitudes about how it was okay, or how she'd wanted it too. With these things running through his mind, and wondering how to handle it since none of these things excused what he had done, he was unprepared for what she did say.

"Groll," his name was a long, slow syllable when she said it, the r and the l rolling slightly. It hung between them, soft, quiet, gentle. Their eyes met, and she spoke again, this time firmly, clearly. "I have already forgiven you."

He thought to speak, to respond in some way, but he didn't know what to say. Then she leaned forward, closing the slight distance between them, and took his lower lip between hers. As he felt her nibble there, so slightly, so delicately, he crushed her against him, nearly forgetting how delicate she was. Her hands still held his face, pulling him close as she explored his lips with her own. It was both a strange, and delightful kiss. When she pulled away a few minutes later, he opened his eyes and looked up at her. She smiled down at him, "I do wish you'd stand up, I could never get used to this."

Instead of standing up, though, he pulled her down with him, rolling over so that she landed on him. He intertwined his fingers behind her back, just above the rise of her butt. "Nah, I don't think I want to stand up just now."

She crossed her own hands on his chest, leaning her chin against them, one wayward foot rising up behind her to idly swing back and forth at the heel. One finger tapped delicately on the other hand, "Hmm, well, I hardly see the benefit of lazing about like this. Are all orcs this lazy?" Only her eyes betrayed her amusement at the situation with their deep green glow, her face otherwise impassive and calm.

"No, only those of us who have been corrupted by the influence of blood elves such as yourself." He bared his teeth in a grin that more nearly approached a grimace.

"I, lazy? Surely you jest." Two feathery eyebrows rose in mock indignation.

"Indeed. Here I am, unable to move, held down by your overwhelming bulk, when I would have long since have been about my day. What should I do, throw you to the ground like a stone?"

"Overwhelming bulk, you say? Throw me to the ground, you say? I should indeed like to see you try to throw my 'overwhelming bulk' to the ground, sir. I daresay you cannot even pick me up!" She was grinning fully now, her face alight with laughter as the seriousness of their situation was forgotten in the moment of simple play.

Swiftly, he rose to his feet, bringing her with him, and then throwing her over his shoulder, much as he had the first night. As he unceremoniously draped her over a powerful shoulder, she shrieked with surprised laughter. He grinned, enjoying the sound and the reaction. Carrying her still, he walked to their bedrolls, and knelt down, holding her in place with one arm as she wriggled in mock protest. He tried to ignore the enticing derriere that was so close to his face and practically begging to be kissed as he went about the task at hand.

Which was preparing a spot to 'throw her to the ground,' as it were. Not as neatly as he would have liked, as he was 1 handed for the moment, he folded their combined bedrolls up until they were nearly a foot thick, and approximately as long as her body, and her head. Then, with a heave, he pulled her back over his shoulder, and deposited her rather abruptly on the cushion he'd made.

She lay on the cushion, her hair, escaping its clip, sprayed out on it like a wave washing the shoreline. He lay down beside her on his side, one leg shoving in under both of hers so that her legs were wrapped around one of his. He rather enjoyed how the cushion brought her closer to a comfortable level for him, and he reached out and began to undo the lacing of the tunic she wore. Finally, he spread it open, leaving her breasts open to his view, and touch.

He slid one hand across her belly, up to the nearest breast. She was not nearly as well endowed as the orc women he had enjoyed in the past, so a good part of his hand splayed out across her chest even as he slipped his thumb around her ribcage below her breast, and squeezed it upwards to thrust the nipple up towards his mouth. As he circled the pink nipple with his tongue, he felt it respond by tightening as if to reach up towards him, too. Pulling it into his mouth to suck, he felt his tusk press against her arm, and was glad that he kept them filed, or he would have split her arm with it by now. The other tusk hovered close to her white skin, and he idly realized that his tusks were the only part of him that was as light as she was.

But then he was distracted by her intake of breath as he squeezed a bit harder to bring more of her into his mouth. His tongue flickered, teasing the nipple, and he enjoyed the arching of her body and the way her breathing responded to his touch. He released her breast after a few moments, and propped his head up with his hand. As he moved away from her slightly in the movement, the arm he'd been laying against was freed. He felt her hand slip down the length of his body, and it was his turn for a sharp intake of breath as her questing hand found his penis. He felt his muscles twitch in response as her delicate, soft hand slipped down the inside length of him, the fingers separating at the bottom to encompass him. Her palm lay against his penis, but the backs of her fingers rubbed lightly against his inner thighs, the lower fingers rubbing the rise of his testicles. Unconsciously, he arched towards her fingers, wanting to feel more of her hand on him.

She touched him for a moment that way, and then she slipped her fingers around him, encircling the shaft of his penis, and lightly slipped up and down it without pressure. A simple sort of exploration- sexual, certainly, but arousing for more than just that reason. But it wasn't until she reached the head, where already he was dripping a small stream of lubricant, that he felt a strong surge of pure lust slide through him. Instead of shying away from the wetness, she slid her thumb across it, and used it to lubricate the thumb so that she could rub a small circle there with it, with a firm, quick flick back and forth across the top.

Realizing then that he had been distracted by her touch, he slipped his own hand down into her breeches and between her legs. Slipping one finger into her folds, he was careful not to slip inside her entrance because of his sharp nails. He was no longer surprised to find her already wet. He explored her, as she had him, a slow, leisurely exploration of every part of her. He was keenly aware of her hand on him, as well, until he began to flick roughly across her clitoris with his finger. Her body arched reflexively, and her motions on his penis stilled. Her far hand gripped harder against the bedroll she was laying on.

Abruptly, he pulled away from her. He grinned at her as he pulled her hand away from him, and lifted her legs. He pulled her breeches off, discarded his own underclothing, and repositioned himself so that their bodies formed an X, then settled her legs back on his hip and leg. He pulled her nearest leg up so that it lay over his waist, and opened her up so that he could reach over it and slide a finger up and down the wetness there. She moaned and curved, her hips thrusting against his hand. He grasped his penis and slipped it up and down her wet folds, finally guiding it her entrance. He pressed slightly, very slightly, then held his position for a moment as her hips shifted and arched, trying to slide onto him.

He looked up at her then, enjoying the look on her face. The slightest bit of white teeth showed as she unconsciously gripped her lower lip with them. Her eyes were half closed, a look of deep concentration showed across her face. Looking directly into her half-closed eyes, he began to tease her again. Just a nudge, then back up and down the wet slit, and another nudge. A look of frustration crossed her face, and he almost laughed. "What?" he asked.

"You're a terrible tease," she said, her voice husky and warm.

"Maybe I just don't know what you want," he told her, smirking at her. "You should tell me, or else you may get the same all day."

She blushed deeply, but she looked him in the eyes, and said exactly what he wanted to hear, "I want to feel you inside me, Groll." A powerful surge of lust drove through him, and he thrust forward into her with a rough motion, vaguely noticing that the bedroll had performed perfectly, bringing her to exactly the right level so that he could thrust into her in a manner comfortable to them both. He brought his hand back up to rub against her clitoris with his thumb as he began to thrust into her faster and deeper.

When she began to breathe faster, her hands clenching convulsively against the bedding, he stopped abruptly. He was still for a few moments, enjoying the tight, soft wetness enveloping his penis. "Not yet, kitten, not yet." He began to move his thumb again, and she moaned and pressed against him. He felt her hips grinding against his own, and gritted his teeth.

He began to move again, this time focused on his own pleasure, though he kept up the motion of his thumb, pressing harder now. He shifted slightly, thrusting faster, but with longer strokes, shoving into her with nearly the full force of his powerful muscles. "Deities, Groll, you feel so good," her voice, low and soft, carried easily to his ears. It was this more than anything that pushed him over the edge. He felt himself release inside of her, spasms of pleasure thrusting his seed into her. He heard her cry out, "oh!" and felt her reflexively tighten around him, and growled as she, in her turn, had spasm after spasm around his penis. With his thumb still against her, he felt the muscles there throbbing lightly, even as she subsided. He moved the thumb, so slightly, and she jerked and gasped. He growled with pleasure at her reaction, a long, low sound almost like a purr.

Withdrawing then, he sat cross-legged on the ground, and planted her sideways in his lap. He held her against him, both of them quiet and still. He felt her hand on his chin, brushing against the rough stubble that seemed to perpetually reside there, despite his best efforts with a strop and razor. He pulled back a bit, and chuckled at her rather charming disarray. He realized suddenly that it was the first time that he'd ever seen an elf so messy outside of battle. There was, he noted, even a twig stuck in her long hair.

"What?" challenging, daring, direct.

"I just noticed that, for an elf, you're a terrible slob," he snorted.

"Lazy, and a slob, I am, eh? Whatever will you do with me?"

"Mount you and ride you like a pony, I suppose," he said, completely deadpan.

He watched her try not to laugh, and fail. She started giggling first, and then that familiar, throaty laugh danced through the air. "I suppose that's one alternative," she said, then, "You're an evil man, Groll."

"Well, I'm an orc, what did you expect, cookies and milk?" She shook her head, still laughing.

He turned her around then, so that her legs extended in front of them, and she could lean back against him. He wrapped his arms around her, and sank his face into her hair, finding it scented slightly of spices. It caressed softly against his face, and he closed his eyes. She felt so small and delicate against him, even fragile. One of her hands unconsciously rubbed up and down against his arm, and he let himself enjoy the feeling for a moment.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

Until his thoughts turned to their current predicament. What were they going to do? Somewhere ahead, and possibly behind, there were enemies, waiting for some unknown reason, to kill him and capture her. What did they want? Why were they after her? And most of all, how could he protect her? And then there was the not-so-small matter of their relationship, whatever it was, or was turning into. If either the elves, or the orcs, knew or found out about their relationship, both of them would be put to death, or at best, exiled permanently.

Finally, his mind still racing, he kissed her head lightly, and pulled a wisp of hair off of his tusk. As she stood up, he patted her lightly on the butt. "You should clean up, you look like you've been rolling around on the ground with a naked orc." She chuckled, but complied, picking up the coarse brush he used for his own hair, and apply it to her own, still naked but for the open tunic. He turned away to dress himself, before he let the arousal he already felt returning delay their leaving yet longer. This time, he made sure that she ate, slowly and carefully, before they started their day.

To his pleasure, yet also concern, they encountered nothing eventful whatsoever before they arrived, a couple of hours later, at Camp Tuarjaro. They rode quietly, peacefully, nothing disturbing them at all. He had decided, after some thought, to stick to the road. It seemed unlikely that they would want to attract attention to their attempts to kidnap the woman, so the chances were higher that nothing would happen along the road. Either his gamble was correct, or their enemies had given up, or were hoping to catch them unawares somewhere further up the line.

As they arrived in town, he was surprised to hear the innkeep greet Shantille by name, with what could almost be considered a smile on his broad, tauren face. The part of Groll that kept warning him to remain skeptical of her story dissolved, its duty done. It was no longer necessary, it was impossible for her to have paid off this woman to call her a fake name. It was perfectly clear that she was who she claimed she was. Which really only deepened the mystery.

They had decided on the way to spend the afternoon there, and the night, and try to regroup and restock. Some of what she would need would have to be mail posted, and thus they would do best to wait here for it. So she bought a room for the night, and when she was done, to Groll's surprise, the tiny, stately elf bowed to the Tauren innkeeper. "Please send a pallet up for my guard, Byula?"

"A guard, in these parts?" he asked.

"No, I am returning shortly to North Rend. In the meantime, I see no plausible reason to waste money on separate rooms. I won't do it then, why would I do it now?" she shrugged nonchalantly.

Groll found himself admiring the clever way she had allayed suspicion, while also arranging for them to share a room in one simple move. He grunted when the Innkeeper looked his way, "I'm not the one paying, I don't give a damn. I'll sleep on the floor either way, beds're too damned soft." He clumped after Shantille as she bowed again, thanked the innkeep, and headed for their room.

When they reached the room, he dropped his packs on the locker at the foot of the spare, minimal bed. "I'll go now, instead of wating for later," he said. For an instant he was surprised by the startled, even hurt look on her face. He shook his head and pulled her against him, and she laid her cheek against his chest. He ran his hand down her hair, a simple caress. "I meant go for provisions, kitten." He lifted her chin carefully, and gave her what he hoped approximated a smile- or at least passed for one. He felt and saw the relief wash over her. He kissed her gently on the head and left the room. As he went, he watched the area, trying to assess the likelihood of enemies. There were few here that weren't familiar to him, and none of them were trolls.

Finally, he found someone who had food to sell, and began to haggle with him, hoping for a lower price. And, really, because it was something he just rather enjoyed. Because of this, he was distracted from the attunement he still shared with the elf. He was unsure how long it was before the nagging feeling worked its way into his conscious mind, but he felt a sense of pain and surprise coming from her. Dropping the bread he'd been haggling over, he sprinted towards the inn, as fast as an orc in full plate can go.

Once inside, he took the steps three and four at a time, leaping more than climbing up them. The room they shared was at the far end of the corridor, and the feeling of injury from the elf was increasing quickly. Her protective bubble had clearly passed its limits, because he knew instinctively that if it had not, she would be taking no injury. As he rushed full speed down the corridor, it seemed to him that it stretched out into infinity, the door he needed leaping away from him. Fury began to boil in him, that anyone dared to attack her here, in broad daylight, in a populated area- or even at all. As he ran, once more the shield and sword leaped into his hands, seeming of their own accord- as eager for blood as he himself.

Eventually, though, of course, despite the strange sense of time dilation, he reached the door to their room. Not stopping, he slammed into it, leading with the massive, heavy shield. With a roar, he blazed into the room. Once again, that strange sense of time dilation seemed to fall over him, and the first instant seemed to stretch into minutes. In the center of the room, only feet from the bed, he saw her- his elf. Brilliant, blazing holy fire seemed to lick around her, her hands stretched upwards as the flames caressed her. Her dark hair blew in the magical disruption, waving wildly behind her back, the cloak under it seeming to seethe with the flames. Her head was flung backwards as the magic flowed out from her, a wall of brilliant, sparkling holy magic.

Surrounding her were four trolls, and even as he was rushing into the room, he saw one of them land a blade an instant before the holy fire reached him. Blood geysered from her rib, the magic robe no protection against it. Groll saw the sparkling of the droplets as they slowly, so agonizingly slowly, flickered through the air, following the path of the dagger that had called them from her tender flesh. But even in that instant as he watched, he felt the same wave of energy strike him. Instead of damage, though, it washed over him with a cooling, refreshing touch, and then it was gone. It was only an instant, but he saw, to his relief, that the same energy that healed him also healed her.

With that distant awareness, he moved on to the business at hand. With a roar, he set free the fury within him. Countless years had passed, yet his blood remembered. It surged within him, singing in his veins. Rage, power, fury… they burned in him, an unholy, impure fire that blazed its way through his veins and sought only more blood. The energy of his rage was a tangible thing in that moment. It flashed out from him, stunning the four trolls who were closing in on the slight form of the elf.

His first target was across the room from him, and he felt the boiling rage in his blood zing through his muscles as he roared across the room at unnatural speed. He struck the shaman (another shaman?) so hard that she flew the few feet into the wall. Groll felt a furious joy flash through him as he heard a bone crack in the troll's body. Part of him took stock of where the other trolls were, but most of his focus was on dispatching this one. As she began to rise, he saw her hands begin to move, and she began to chant. Infuriated, he kicked her, landing the blow on one of her shins with such force that it snapped and she staggered, the spell dying on her lips before it could take form.

As she reached into her pocket for one of the disgusting fetishes that the troll shamans carried around, he decided it was time to end it once and for all. Some part of him admired that she was still trying, despite at least two broken bones. The rest of him practically sang with the lust to spill her blood. Absently, he parried as a blow from a mace that descended towards his head from his right, then he let the arc the sword had taken turn into an even broader arc. In that strange way it had when he was fighting, time slowed down for him yet again, as if to help him land the killing blow true and square. Light glinted off of the sword as it made its glittering, eager arc towards the neck of the troll cowering in front of him. It landed true this time, driven by the powerful force of his muscles and the rage of his once demon-stirred blood, driving all the way through the bones, sinews, and muscles of the troll's neck. Her severed head stared at him a moment in surprise, before toppling slowly forward. Blood rose from the severed neck, the body rearing up and backwards. A red rosette appeared on the wall behind it, blooming like the first sweet rose of spring.

As the troll died, a horrible laugh rose up in him. With it came a surge of clarity and power. Groll's face grimaced into a mask of glee, and he swung upon the troll to his right. Immediately, he recognized this one as a warrior, as the troll swung again with one of the two maces he held. Already, those maces had landed several powerful (and if had not been consumed with blood lust) painful blows on Groll's side. Groll's laughter rose again, as he confronted the troll in front of him. He roared once again, channeling rage and power into the sound, stunning the three remaining trolls again, inadvertently stopping the third remaining troll in mid-cast.

As the troll in front of him blinked and staggered, Groll swung the sword he held up beneath the arm of the other warrior, grimacing as it ground against resistant metal armor. With a yank, he pulled it out, gratified to see that he'd actually done more damage by doing so than his initial swing had done. Now fragrant red liquid rushed from the new hole in the metal armor, as if desperate to escape. Groll snarled as the troll threw back his own head and let out a shout, a shout that seemed to revitalize him, stirring his own blood and even mending some of the damage Groll had inflicted on him. Scowling, Groll advanced on the warrior, who grinned as Groll stalked forward.

"I'm going to wipe the floor with that grin, you bastard," Groll said calmly. Then he brought the massive shield crashing upwards into the troll's jaw, snapping his head back. Spittle flew through the air, accompanied by the grinding sound of bone on bone. The reinforced dragon bone of the shield held, easily absorbing the impact, which Groll hardly felt at all. The troll's face, however, fared far worse. As the shield dropped, the troll shook his head, more spittle flying, now colored pink with the infusion of blood from the powerful blow. But the troll, while injured and stunned, was not ready to give up just yet.

Unexpected, and incredibly painful, Groll was suddenly struck by a hammering barrage of magic. It struck him over and over with a punishing and brutal violence. It felt for a moment as if he were awash in a hazy sea of pain, as if the pain would go on forever. He snarled against the pain, and once more, his blood responded to the pain, singing with increased fury and power. Then it was over, and although it continued to grind into him with residual pain, he continued to press his target. Especially as he was washed over again, bathed this time in a renewing surge of Healing magic. It suffused his body, once, twice, three times, then four. The searing pain was mostly gone, replaced by aches and discomfort. But he was reassured that she was there, though he could feel her, he could sense her; on some primal level even deeper than the attunement they shared. She was there, and she was fulfilling her role as healer.

Focusing again, Groll placidly blocked a blow from his left as the troll in front of him attempted to hit him again with the mace he held. As the troll's arm snapped back, Groll slashed at the vulnerable arm, gratified by the crunch and grind of metal as the sword bit through the armor and into the troll's arm, neatly severing a tendon. Without pause or thought, Groll brought the sword back to the other side, parrying the troll's other mace in mid swing. Groll continued to ignore the blows to his back, trusting his armor to continue its job of protecting him. He felt the Healing wash over him, and grinned, that cold, cruel grimace. Fully restored, he stepped forward, and openly laughed as his sword sliced into the troll, cleaving cleanly through metal into the soft flesh of the troll's belly, and grinding against his spine.

The pungent scent of urine filled the air, the deeper stench of feces followed shortly after. Groll snarled as wrenched his sword free, watching the troll topple forward. Before turning to dispatch the next, he spat on the dying body, an empty, yet gratifying gesture. He clenched his teeth as another bolt of magic slammed into him, and he gritted his teeth. _Mages… I really hate mages_, he thought. But even as he turned to dispatch the mage, the rogue behind him landed another painful strike, severing into the powerful muscles of his right shoulder. Yet even as his grip began to loosen, and his arm to fall, he felt the Healing wash over him again. The sword lifted again, leaping up like an eager worg when his master has returned.

He turned slowly, deliberately, once more leaving the mage to his own devices for a moment, to focus on the nearer threat. Groll's sword described an arc as it sliced through the air, reaching gleefully for the head of the troll in front of him. To his surprise and momentary admiration, the troll managed to duck it, dropping into a low squat, the sword passing a hair's breadth from the top of his head, the only casualty being the tip of one long ear. Blood arced through the air much as it had before when this same creature had struck Shantille with the dagger he held. At the thought, the memory of blood droplets suspended in the air, splashing out of her side, Groll's blood ran cold- then boiled with a renewed fury.

As he brought the shield up for a punishing blow, Groll saw, with a large degree of revulsion, a magic sigil crawl grotesquely across the troll's cheek, before burrowing into him again. Another grotesque, fat slither of shadow magic crawled out of the troll's eye and wriggled towards his scalp. Groll recognized this as the work of a priest, and idly thought to himself, _I see she's been busy_. A sickening, grinding 'thud' accompanied his thought as the shield connected, and the troll's squat turned into a rise to the troll's full height as he was knocked back and up by the force of the blow.

The sword followed the path of the shield and rose up the length of the troll's body. As it sliced, rather shallowly, the length of his body, the troll slumped forward. Despite the deep cold that had settled into his bones from the mage's magic, Groll sidestepped neatly, and the troll fell, dead, at this feet. Shadows crawled out of the corpse, wriggling for an instant before dissipating into the air as if they had never existed. Groll shuddered, repulsed, vaguely unnerved by the knowledge that the passive, seemingly gentle priest, had done the majority of work of killing the troll whose corpse he had to step over to head towards the mage.

As he stepped towards the mage, another bolt of magic hurtled towards him… and one towards the elf. He watched with agonizing clarity as it struck her. He felt himself go rigid, and saw her do the same. He was unable to move, the unfamiliar magic holding him immobilized. His mind roared in frantic, frenzied rage as he saw his elf freeze into place as well, and he stood helpless to assist her. The mage, his arms swinging nonchalantly, ambled towards her. Groll willed his arms to move, his legs to cooperate. His mind fought the arcane control of the magic that encased him, to no avail.

The troll stood now in front of the elf, "The master be wantin' ya, and I be makin' sure 'e be getting' ya." But as the troll reached out to grasp her, Groll heard a bright, sharp tinkle. The elf had grasped the trinket that dangled from her belt an instant before the magic had struck her, and with only a thought, she was able to activate it, breaking the spell that bound her.

"Not this day," she said, and she was instantly surrounded by the familiar glow of protective magic. Her hand flickered again, and a shadow rose from it and then, faster than the eye could follow, struck the troll. Groll would have cringed, had he been able to, as the shadow landed on the troll and became a writhing mass of wormlike shadows, burrowing instantly into his skin. _Ugh, magic, I hate magic_, he thought. He would stick to the powers he knew, the powers of muscle, and bone, and metal.

It was even as he thought this that the troll began to cast again. A portal appeared suddenly, and the sinister, pulsating, virulent magic was familiar to Groll in some way he couldn't quite place. It was a portal unlike any he had seen before, and the ability to cast it without deep focus and concentration alarmed him.

"Me be back for ye, girlie, an' den we's gonna dance dis dance again, but nex' time, I be takin' ya." The troll disappeared into the portal, a puff of magic the only remnant of his existence in the room. As he vanished, the spell holding Groll broke, and he staggered forward.

A fierce feeling suddenly drove through him, rage colored with relief, fear colored with incredible joy. He realized that he hadn't felt fear in longer than his memory could divine. It had been so long that it took a moment for him to recognize it. He walked over to Shantille, and stood, looking down at her. She caught his eyes for an instant, then looked down, and went very still. His blood still sang, calling for blood, infuriated at being denied the final kill. He felt predatorial, primal, savage- as if he had gone feral, in a sense. He wanted her in that moment in an unfamiliar, new way. He recognized that his fear was centered on her, that she might die or be taken from him. The thought brought a low growl to his throat, bubbling up and rising to the surface as he struggled to control the multitude of emotions and desires that boiled through him.

He stepped closer to her, now inches away. The scent of the spice that always seemed to cling to her- was it cloves?- wafted to his nose, cutting through the far sharper, more acute scents of death and gore. She remained still and silent, not looking at him, and he was glad, because he wasn't sure what he was capable of in this moment. If he gave in to the familiar feelings, he would injure her severely. If he gave in to the unfamiliar feelings, he might injure her that way as well- smothering her in his driven need to defend, to protect, to fill her and become her whole world- if only for a time…

The war within him was ended in the simplest, and most unexpected way. Byula and two guards burst into the room, and his mind was immediately distracted from the thoughts that roiled through it like magma, searing him with their strangeness. As he entered the room, the inkeep gasped. The carnage strewn across the room was fairly extensive, and Groll realized that the cleaning alone would likely take days.

Seeing the look on the innkeep's face, he prepared to defend their actions in defending themselves, but the protest died on his lips before it was even born. Shantille placed her hand lightly on the tauren's arm, and said, quietly, "I think it would be best for all concerned if this incident were to remain here in this room." A look of relief washed over the innkeeper's cow like face, and he nodded.

"Thank you, Shantille," then with a shrewd glance at him, "It seems luck was with you, in getting your guard early." The simple statement made it clear that he understood that Shantille had reason to need a guard now instead of later. A reason that should be kept quiet. Shantille nodded, saying nothing. In the way of familiar old friends, it seemed they had reached some sort of unspoken understanding. Groll shrugged.

"I will need to look over the corpses," Groll said, feeling fatigue slowly starting to settle into him. The innkeep nodded, and turned away. While, once again, Groll searched corpses, another tauren arrived and set to work as quickly and as quietly as possible, fixing the door. After another infuriatingly useless search, Groll and Shantille were ushered into a new room, a large tub delivered and filled with water, at (as the two tauren who delivered it insisted adamantly) no extra charge, and with apologies at the inn's inability to protect a valued and frequent customer. Bowing to Shantille, they filled the tub and rushed out of the room.

Groll began to remove the dirty armor. _This time_, he thought, _it can wait. I'm going to enjoy that water while it's warm_. Supple, dexterous hands helped him, until he stood naked, the armor in a careful pile against the wall. He turned then towards Shantille, and this time, she met his eyes.

He reached out to untie the laces of her robe, and she stopped him with a light touch. She smiled and shook her head. "Go, enjoy a bath. I will take care of it."

"Why do you do that?"

A frown furrowed her brow, "Do what?"

He sighed heavily, "Why don't you let me help you? I wonder that you don't do all the fighting yourself, even, much less anything small or simple like this."

She blinked, "I… well… I…" She looked down, away, her face reddening, "it's just… I can do it, so I ought to do it."

"I can take my own armor off. I can wash my own body. I've been doing it for more years than I can remember before I met you. Why should I let you help me?" He stepped closer to her as he said it.

"You don't have to. I am just trying to make your life easier, to help you." She reddened even more.

"Okay, but what's in it for you? Just the whole religious thing, that's all?" he asked.

"No. I like helping you," she said, her voice now quiet, low, as if embarrassed to admit this.

With a finger beneath her chin, he lifted her gently up to look at him again, "What if I like helping you? Then aren't you denying me that pleasure?"

"Well, I…" she blinked, "I never… I hadn't thought of it that way." Once more, he stepped closer to her, looking down at her with his chin nearly on his chest.

"Perhaps, " he said softly, "you ought to start looking at it that way?"

He reached out again, and began to untie her robe again. When he was done, he pulled it off over her head, discarding it on his armor, and following that up with panties and tunic. She slipped her shoes off, and when she stood naked in front of him, finally, he ran his hands up and down her upper arms, ignoring the blood that still clung to them both. He watched her breathing speed up, and despite the slight fatigue that shrouded him after the fight, he felt himself stir to arousal. He hadn't meant it to be that way, and as his penis rose to brush against her belly, he grimaced slightly. He couldn't seem to help himself. Just being near her, much less naked, seemed to call it up in him. Not surprising, given that he was rather lusty in general. Still, he wanted to express something deeper to her, something he didn't know how to say in words, something he didn't even understand, himself.

He picked her up, then, scooping her into his massive arms with no more difficulty than picking up the lightest of his armor. He was grateful to the innkeep in that moment, as he had sent up a bath large enough to easily accommodate an orc- an orc, plus one. He stepped up the steps to the tub, and sank down on the submerged, built-in bench, bringing her with him. The tub was deep enough that, when he sat down, the water came up to the middle of his chest. With her on his lap, the water waved just above her nipples.

Turning awkwardly in the tub, she sat on his lap facing him. Her legs could barely reach around to the sides of his bulky torso, so long as she bent them upwards. The problem- or from his point of view, the pleasure- of the pose was that it spread her legs incredibly widely. He'd missed this fact the first time, but this time he took a moment to relish the almost obscene degree to which straddling him in such a way opened her. She leaned back against the tub, and he felt her butt against his penis, brushing it lightly as she bobbed slightly in the water. The satin feel of her wet skin was deliciously tantalizing, but he restrained himself from acting upon his building desire.

Availing himself of the soap and washcloth, he began to wash her. He started at her neck, watching a rivulet of sparkling water trace its way down her chest to join the water licking at her breasts. Oh, how he wanted to grab them, to knead them, to taste them… with a mental wrench, he dragged himself back to the job of washing her, the washcloth running over her shoulders, and down her body. He washed her breasts, lingering only a moment to feel their fullness in his hands, before traveling onwards. He picked her up by the waist and lifted her off of him, setting her on the edge of the tub opposite of him. He appreciated the large lip of the tub, as it gave him a place to sit her while he slowly and methodically ran the washcloth up and down each soft, satiny, wet leg.

He felt her watching him the entire time, her eyes following his every move. Finally, when he had cleaned even her last foot, he set it down on the bench beside him, and looked at her. With one foot planted on each side of him, she sat on the edge of the tub, her beautiful body spread out in its soft white splendor. He stood up, the movement dropping her feet so that they dangled in the water. She took the soap and washcloth he offered, with a smile that made his breathing stop and his stomach tighten reflexively. For that moment, she looked extraordinary to him, and he found it difficult to be still as her hands touched him to wash him. She cleaned every part of him, but with a nearly impersonal methodical efficiency. He fought between being glad of it, soon to be out of the bloody water, and disappointment that she could so easily manage to be impersonal towards him.

She finished quickly, and then she undid his braids. She stepped out of the tub them, standing on the steps. He dunked into the water, holding his breath and submerging himself, washing his hair quickly. He rose out of the water, to be greeted with a towel. She dried him slowly, carefully, her hands far less impersonal now. Her touch through the towel was a caress, delicate, soft, and tender. Then he was washed over again in Healing magic, and as it whispered softly over his body, he seriously reconsidered his dislike of magic. Especially given the fact that, once again, the feeling that it carried was sensual and gentle, yet energizing.

When he was dry, she stepped back into the tub, and unlike him, laid back into the water. Her hair flowed out around her, and she closed her eyes. He stepped up to the tub, and reached into the water. Sliding his fingers into her hair, he cupped her head from behind, and she looked up at him and smiled. He held her thus as she combed her hands through her hair, but found that all he could think about was the way that her breasts thrust up into the air with gleaming water running in rivulets down them as she reached upwards to her hair.

Finally, she was done. He was so aroused that he was nearly in pain, and as she stepped out into the towel he offered her, he wanted to wrap her up and be inside her for the rest of the day. He dried her instead, though, calling upon years of military discipline to keep himself under control. He tormented himself by lingering between her legs as he dried her there, and from her sharp intake of breath, knew that it was a sweet sort of torment for her, too.

The towel, now damp from their bodies, was discarded, and they stood naked together. He slowly ran his hand up her body, starting at her hip, and traveling up her back, to pull her close to him, her wet hair cascading over his hand. He thought he should say something sweet, something elfish. Maybe tell her how incredibly beautiful she looked at that moment. But he didn't, he just looked at her, wanting to touch her, to fill her, to lose himself in her. So he said nothing, and waited for her.

She looked up at him for a few moments, then reached up and pulled his head towards her. Her head lilted sideways as she once more began to nibble exploratively at his lower lip. He flicked his tongue out and traced her upper lip with it, lightly, slightly, awkward in the newness, the strangeness, and the pleasure of kissing someone so different in some ways from himself.

A sudden, soft sound of pain escaped her, and he realized that he'd begun to nearly crush her against himself in his overwhelming desire to be closer to her. He relaxed his hold, and was acutely aware that he wasn't even straining himself to the smallest degree, yet he had hurt her. A hold such as he'd had on her would have been considered soft, pathetic, even weak, by even the meekest orc woman.

He stood back up, then, and led her over to the pallet, fully aware that anything more strenuous than breathing on the bed might well betray them. He prepared to lay her down, but she shook her head. He was mildly surprised, it was the most assertive he'd seen her be towards him. He raised his eyebrows, and she smiled, a soft smile. "Please," she said, and gestured towards the pallet. "I want to touch you."

He lay down on the pallet, hands behind his head again, propping him up further than the pillow alone. Thus, he could see her more clearly as she sank down to her knees and sat beside his right hip. She laid forward, still sitting, her naked upper body sprawling onto his chest, wet hair falling onto him. She traced a scar that ran from above his right nipple and down across his chest, then lightly began to kiss the trail her fingers had just followed. Then she rose onto her knees, following the line of another scar that ran across his belly.

The touch of her lips, the sight of her body bent over him, and the scent of cloves from the rinse she'd used in her hair combined to make him so fiercely aroused that he had to fight to keep control over himself. He wanted her so badly that when she reached his hip with her light kisses, he growled, a long, low sound that rumbled from the depths of his chest. As if ignoring the warning inherent in the sound, she climbed over his leg, nudging his legs apart to make room for her. He felt wetness as she climbed over his leg, her body deliberately low and rubbing against him.

He was used to a very, very different form of sexual encounter, and he found the slow creep of her lips towards his erection to be both frustrating and intensely delicious. He had never experienced this slow climbing of desire. When he had sexual encounters, they were swift, brutal affairs, bent upon pleasure and completion. Feeling Shantille exploring him, tasting him, touching him, was as thrilling as it was frustrating. Watching her as she arched against him while climbing over him was sensual and exciting, and once more he was struck by the contrasts between them.

But it was when her lips finally pressed against the base of his erection that he found himself once more losing all sense of time- the first time ever outside of battle. His head arched backwards and his eyes drifted closed for a moment. He felt an exquisite flash of lust sing through him as she kissed lower, until she pulled one testicle into her mouth, her hands sliding up his hips, then back down again as she moved to the other one.

She then slid her tongue up the back of his penis, softly tracing the scar there. He drew in a deep breath, feeling the mobile tongue pressing back and forth on him. He had never before felt a woman's mouth on him, having never ventured outside of orcs. Since most orcs, including women, filed their tusks to razor sharp, that precluded such things as sexual encounters the likes of this. He groaned as her tongue traveled further up, and looked down, compelled to watch in lustful fascination as her soft red lips kissed him, a soft, gentle gesture.

For a moment, he experienced a strange and unexpected fear. Granted, he was an orc, but his penis was as sensitive as any mans, and the thought of teeth grazing it filled him with a fleeting fear. But then, as he watched, she slipped her mouth over the tip of his penis, one hand moving to grasp him below her mouth, the other cupping his testicles lightly. The warm softness of her mouth (without even a hint of teeth on him), the whiteness of her skin against his dark green skin, and the deep red of her lips filled him with a strange longing, a sweet, powerful feeling.

Oddly, the feeling made him both want to cradle her, and also made him want to plunge into her mouth and fill it with abandon. His hips shifted and thrust slightly of their own accord, but he controlled both urges, delighting in the feeling of her mouth and hands on him. He felt her tongue play quickly over the head of his penis, then rub lightly, wetly, against the back of it. He sucked in a deep breath, and again that menacing, delighted growl rose in him. For several long minutes, she explored his penis, then began to slide mouth and hand up and down it.

He felt her begin to speed up, and her hand slipped down under his testicles, to rub firmly beneath them. He was surprised at the erotic pleasure that pressure created for him, and combined with the bobbing of her head, the rubbing of her other hand, he felt that pressure hastening him towards release.

She obviously felt it, too, and suddenly stilled, letting him calm down again before she began to move again, this time with a slight suction that was, he thought, perhaps the most sensual, delightful, sexy thing he'd ever felt. After a moment, she sped up again, rubbing him again beneath his testicles, her lower hand following the path of the upper and her mouth, a synchronized movement that made it seem as if he was deeply buried inside of her. On the upstroke, she pressed his scrotum upwards, a massage of sort for his testicles that drove him, finally, over the edge.

He wasn't sure what to expect as he released into her mouth, having not experienced this form of sexual encounter before. He was, therefore, unsure why he was so pleased when she simply accepted it, not withdrawing or rejecting it as he finished. As he subsided, he felt her hand slip away from the lower position, and she leaned against him slightly with it, still holding him with her other hand. Then he felt her gently licking around the top of his penis, a light, almost asexual cleaning, before she released him, kissing him lightly on the old scar.

She grinned at him then, and climbed up his body, before collapsing on his chest. He readjusted the pillow, and wrapped his arms around her. They lay like that for some time, and when he made to move, she smiled up at him, once more resting her chin on her hands. "Be still, orc," she said, the last word sounding more like a pet name than anything, "rest for now. We have plenty of time." Then she laid her head down, her hand caressing him idly. He felt a sense of comfort and contentment wash over him. Was that what peace felt like?

_No_, he thought, _not quite_. There could be no peace while danger lurked, waiting for him to drop his guard, waiting for him to forget, even for a moment, that his elf was being hunted.


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

He rested there with her for a while; running one large hand up and down her back, enjoying the soft, smooth skin there. It was inevitable, though, as a veteran warrior, that his mind began to range back over the fight. How had they gotten into their room? He was an uncanny judge of character, and he felt certain that the innkeep would have never allowed them to get their hands on a key. The only conclusion that he could logically come to seemed to be, on the surface, the least logical one possible. Someone had watched, seen where they went, and reported their whereabouts. At which point, the only possible explanation seemed implausible yet undeniable… the four trolls had ported into the room from elsewhere, possibly via the same portal the mage left through. Such travel would require an exponential expenditure of lives and magic… magic of the darkest and deadliest sort.

"Kitten," he said softly, loathe to disturb their comfortable rest, but knowing it must be done, "how did they get into the room?"

Her words confirmed his fears. Her face was troubled as she looked up at him, once more resting her chin on the back of her hands, crossed still on his chest. "Through a portal, just as the mage left." Her next words chilled him to the center of his bones, "Groll, I recognize that magic. It's scourge magic."

He sat up abruptly, turning her sideways in his lap so that she didn't need to try to straddle him in order to stay close, "Are you certain?" He was almost certain himself, but it was possible that it was something new. Deities help them all if it were; they were in enough trouble already.

"I'm certain," she replied. "I've studied magic all my life, I've studied Power all my life… there can be no doubt, that was scourge magic. But they were not undead, or even- so far as I could see- corrupted. It doesn't make sense."

Groll was not relieved. Although it was good news that there wasn't some new and as-yet-unknown danger lurking, it was chilling to know that somehow, his elf had gained the personal and direct attention of the scourge. "But why," he said, "what do they want with you?"

She shook her head, exasperation clear on her face and posture. "I don't know. I can't imagine. I can think of nothing at all that would draw such attention to me!"

He pulled her close to him and lowered his head against hers. He thought at length, trying to sort it out, trying to understand. She sat against him, also apparently lost in thought. Finally, frustration blanketing her voice, "Nothing. There's absolutely nothing." She sighed and laid her hand on his forearm. He looked at it absently, pale white against dark, dusky green. Everything about him magnified her delicacy, her fragility, the slightness of her size. Frustration mounted in him, and he fought the instinct to grip her tightly against him, else he break her in his urge to protect her.

His mind still churning, wondering why, how, who… he suddenly set her away from himself as he rose to his feet. He began to pace the room, uncaring that he was nude as he strode slowly, restlessly, up and down the short length of the room. He barely noticed as she climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged on it and watching him calmly. He snarled, one fisted hand thumping roughly, rhythmically into the other as he walked back and forth.

After some time, Shantille got up from the bed and began to clean her robe in the now-cool bathwater. He stopped to watch her naked body bent over the tub as she washed it. Despite having recently released, he felt himself stir, and then as she leaned forward to reach the soap on the other side, his erection came to full, surging life. He realized that this was the first time in several years that he'd spent long enough in the company of a woman to become aroused again so swiftly. The most amazing part of it all for him was that she did nothing at all to create his arousal, the simplest, most natural and even necessary function of cleaning her clothes making him want to keep her bent over that tub for a far longer duration that it would take to clean a robe.

Suddenly, he strode swiftly across the room, covering the short distance so quickly that she had time to stand, but not to turn. He slipped his hands under her arms and grasped her breasts. He began to knead them, knowing he was being somewhat rough, but suddenly too aroused to maintain a perfect control over himself. She leaned back into him, her hands reaching up to cover his and pull him closer against her. His desire surged in response to her simple action, and he growled as it rushed through him, making his body jerk slightly.

To his surprise, she chuckled, her own arousal making it into a low, throaty sound. "You purr, do you know that?" she said.

"I'm not sure I'd describe it quite that way," he chuckled in response. She laughed and he released her breasts, picking her up to lay her on the bed.

He appreciated the bed immensely, as soon as he gave it a short, swift inspection to see if it would serve his purposes. The bottom of it was a board, a foot or so off of the floor. On this board lay the thick mattress. When he laid her down on it, he laid her butt right on the edge of the bed, so that he would have access to her. Stretching back on the bed, her legs were parallel with her body, and he reached out and spread them in the same nearly obscene way they had been in the bath. Standing a ways from her, he tossed her one of the pillows and watched her arrange it so that she could see him. He looked her over, caressing his hands up and down her inner thighs. He knew she expected him to shove inside her, but that wasn't his intent at all.

Moving forward, he knelt in front of her, between her legs. He appreciated that her legs were not bent upwards, only outwards, because if they had bent upwards, his tusks would have created a problem. He held her legs apart with his hands, and then dove into her, feeling no desire to prolong the wait until he could do as he wished. He couldn't do this with orc women, their legs being too large and thick, so that with his tusks- even filed- it was simply impractical. He'd never tasted a woman before, but he realized he'd never really wanted to before, anyway.

As he leaned forward and reached out to lick her, he was surprised to find the taste to be, at most, quite mild. A faint saltiness, and little else. The scent, he noticed, was also mild, but stronger than the taste, which was practically nothing at all. He had been concerned before he began about the interaction of his tusks with her, and as his tongue touched her, she jerked, her legs pressing towards him and her feet curling, raising her legs. He realized he would have to hold them down, so he slipped his hands around her legs, curving his fingers around the top, holding her spread-eagle. He ran his tongue up and down, lightly at first, tasting, searching, discovering her.

She gasped as his tongue slid over her clitoris, and he stopped there to tease her a bit. He felt her unconscious movements as her legs tried to tighten, to wrap around him, and he growled with pleasure. He easily held her legs apart with no effort at all, but the fact that she was so obviously aroused and excited by the touch of his tongue- as he had been by hers- delighted him.

For some time, he flickered at her opened folds, sometimes lightly, sometimes firmly, occasionally with a light suck. He was careful to keep his teeth from grazing her, as well, acutely aware that it could possibly draw blood. Finally, when she was arching and grasping at the bedspread, he plunged his tongue inside of her. He probed there, feeling his own arousal rising strongly as she began to press her hips roughly against him. Then, as he explored inside of her with his strong, mobile tongue, he found a spot at the top of her vaginal tunnel. He felt almost a ribbed surface, and decided to explore it. To his surprise, this decision was greeted with a sharp, sensual cry.

Recognizing immediately that he'd found another very sensitive spot, he began to run his tongue up and down it—this must be the spot that drove women crazy when he shifted his hips to make his penis rub there. As he did so, he was shocked and at first taken aback as she suddenly grasped his tusks, one in each hand, and pulled him against her. He hesitated for a second, then he heard her voice, husky with lust, "Don't stop, please, don't stop." With a growl, he began to explore it again, delighted as she once more began to reflexively grind against his mouth with her hips, pulling him against her still by his tusks.

He heard her breathing begin to speed up, and her moans began to match the pace of his thrusting tongue. As the first rush of liquid released, he went faster, pressing harder, pleased that he could do with his muscular tongue what his fingers with their sharp nails were unable to. After several squirts of clear liquid, tasting no different than the rest of the wetness there, he felt her begin to subside. She released his tusks, and he slipped his tongue out, sliding it up and down her again. Echoing her action earlier, he kissed her then, and stood up.

He stood, towering over her, looking at her lying sprawled on the bed, her hair a dark halo around her head. He thought it oddly fitting for her, being both the most humble and sweetest woman he knew, and yet one that killed with dark and grotesque magic. He stood gazing at her, her eyes half closed as she stared back at him. His erect penis stood freely up from his body, and she looked down at it with a grin. "We really ought to take care of that," she said.

He grinned and took one of her hands, watching her stand up, trembling with reaction. He led her over to the tub, standing her on the first step of the small steps up into the tub. Roughly, he pushed her forward, so that her hands were on the tub, and he thrust into her unceremoniously. In some ways, the action was familiar, the drive to take his own pleasure being the typical intent, as it was this time. Yet as familiar as it was, it was also strongly new and different. As he thrust into her, he once again watched himself. Her legs, spread out on the step, rose white and long to meet him. He felt her thrusting back onto him as he thrust into her.

But he was mostly caught up in the incredible sexiness of her pinkness wrapping around his dusky green penis. He watched himself diving in and out of her, and realized that he was fascinated by the contrasts between them- and the way these contrasts fit together with amazing perfection.

At last, he felt his orgasm building, and closed his eyes, gripping her waist and quickening his pace until he thrust into her one more time, rough, deep, abrupt. This time, he released inside of her with a grunt, standing still for a minute afterwards, simply feeling her around him, being inside of her.

When he slipped out of her and moved away, she turned around, sitting weakly against the tub. He grinned and picked her up, laying her on the bed, enjoying the quivering of her legs in a strange and prideful sort of way, as if he had accomplished something outstanding. He lay down on the bed with her, she on her back and he on his side beside her. With one heavy leg thrown over her for the moment, he leaned his head on his elbow and looked down at her.

"You taste nice, you know that?" to his surprise, even after all they'd been through; she blushed darkly, and buried her face in his chest.

"Thank you?" it rose like a question, and he chuckled. He reached over and grasped her far breast in his free hand, this time gently. Idly, he played with her nipple, his thumb tracing back and forth over it.

"I suppose we should go check the post soon and see if your provisions have arrived." She nodded as he said it, but made no move to get up. He pulled the pillow over and replaced his arm with it, pulling his leg off of her in case it was too heavy. They lay like that, just making small talk, for several hours that afternoon.

Eventually, they got up and began the process of getting ready to go on to Tanaris. Together they cleaned his armor, sitting in companionable silence. When they were done, Shantille said, "I need to go take care of some things, I'll be back soon." A deep sense of concern settled into him. What if she left and didn't come back? What if she was attacked? His hands gripped compulsively at the cloth he'd used to clean his arm.

"I'll come with you," he said gruffly, his eyes daring her to challenge him.

She walked up to him, dressed now in a simple white dress, the damp robe draped over her arm. Laying her hand on his arm, she looked up at him, her face open and sincere. "I'll be back, Groll. I'll be okay. I'm just going out into the town, you'll be able to hear and even see me through that window, if needs be. I need to take care of some feminine things, and I'd really rather not have you following me in there. It would create questions we really can't afford. That you are guarding me would only be an acceptable reasoning if we could explain why there is such a need."

He stood quietly for a moment, his mind thinking rapidly. He thought of excuses, scenarios, reasonings, and had to discard each of them. When he failed to come up with a single, logical reason that he should- or even could- accompany her, he sighed and nodded. They would have to take the chance. "I'll come out and see about repairing these dents," he said. "Then if you need me, I'll be closer by."

She nodded, acquiescing to his compromise without complaint. They left the room, Groll carefully shutting the door behind them and double-checking the lock. When they reached the exit into the hot afternoon air, she turned and headed one direction, and he another. Surreptitiously, he tried to watch where she went, and noticed that, as she said, she stopped to speak with a woman who was selling reagents and various potions. Such vendors often carried feminine necessities, so she was obviously in the right place. Some time later, when he was done getting his armor repaired, he walked over to her where she was checking the post.

"Theriesa has sent everything I needed," she said, "I'll need to stop in at our room to put some of it away." She looked pale to him, distressed, and somewhat tense.

"What happened?" he asked.

She shook her head, "It's nothing. I wasn't able to get everything I needed, and it won't be available until I reach a major city. We really need to go to Orgrimmar. I know you mentioned you're going to Tanaris, but it's important that I get to Orgrimmar, or perhaps Thunder Bluff, as soon as possible."

He shook his head adamantly. "No, I have to get to Morgor in Tanaris. He's holding several items for me that are absolutely necessary for protecting you."

He watched as she became more and more agitated as he spoke. "It's more important for me to get to a city where I can get everything I need!"

Grasping her gently by the upper arm, he asked her, "Is it life or death?"

She shook her head, and he saw her face fall. All this fuss over some feminine toiletries that could certainly be substituted for with something a bit more common?

"Can't you use something like a cloth? There certainly have to be other ways to take care of it besides getting them from a vendor?" He ground his teeth in frustration when she shook her head. "Listen, I need the trinket that Morgor is carrying for me, and the enchantments that he can provide. Without them, I wasn't able to break the hold that mage had on me. What happens if next time, you are unable to wound him enough to cause him to flee? If I am once again helpless to stop him? Getting to Tanaris is a life and death issue. If you can't give me something more than feminine niceties, I am absolutely unwilling to go to Thunder Bluff or Orgrimmar."

She lowered her head, "You're right, of course. It's not life or death."

They walked together towards the inn, but Groll felt the gap between them. By telling her 'no,' he had driven a wedge where he wanted only a greater closeness. _But_, he thought, _I have no other logical choice. Especially over something as frivolous as toiletries_.

When they got back to their room, evening was slowly falling upon the quiet desert, and they went for a stroll together. He wanted to hold her hand, but couldn't. Instead, they simply strolled in the cooling evening air. She once more wore her robe, but despite it being intended for utility, he admired the way it clung to her delicate curves. They sat beneath the stars, and talked about old wars, past times, the dangers of the scourge, and how difficult it was to remember their childhoods, so long ago now that they seemed like separate lifetimes.

It was deep in the night before he noticed her starting to yawn, and felt himself do it, also. They meandered slowly back to town, and back into their room. Once there, they laid down on the pallet, with her spooned against him again. Even as he drifted to sleep, surprisingly too tired to have sex with her again, despite the fact that the desire to do so had arisen in him yet again… he noticed the line of worry on her face, too wakeful, too alert, and wondered if she would fret the night away.

They slept in the next day, the hour late before hunger drove him to wakefulness. They'd shifted in the night, and now she was curled up against his side, her back nestled against him while he lay on his back. He rolled back over to spoon her again, and felt her stirring to wakefulness, as well. When she finally awakened fully and looked at him, he noticed signs of serious fatigue on her softly smiling face. He frowned and ran a fingertip down her cheek. "You look like you haven't slept."

She grinned at him, unexpectedly. "I've had enough sleep to keep up with you, orc." Her braggadocio was ruined by a huge yawn that nearly cut off the last word. She giggled at him, and he felt that the distance he'd sensed the day before was gone. A feeling of relief washed over him, and he pulled her to him, reaching down to kiss her lightly, mindful of tusks and teeth.

"Perhaps, but I think that you'd do well to rest a while longer first."

She sighed then, "I would rather we be on our way, Groll, as quickly as possible. Perhaps we ought to employ the flight master after I've exercised and had breakfast."

He reached out and slid his hand down her body, nudging her legs apart with one of his. "What sort of exercise did you have in mind?"

She chuckled and then gasped as one of his fingers slipped into the top of her folds just below the mound there. "I'm sure you can come up with something," she said.

He grinned and looked down in a manner that suggested she follow his gaze. "I already have, kitten, I already have." And sure enough, his penis was already standing at attention, willing and ready to help her get some exercise that morning.

He touched her a bit longer, and realized that although she was tired, she was still very responsive to his touch. He felt her wetness increase as he touched her, but he could also tell that she was still tired. He touched her for a bit, teasing her clitoris and rubbing the sleek, soft folds until he could feel her arching towards him again. Then he shifted to his hands and knees, and maneuvered to where he was between her calves, then pushed her legs open. He wanted to lick and kiss her there again, but realized that she was right; they needed to get on their way.

To his surprise, as if she had the same thought in the same moment, she put her feet on his chest, scooting down towards him. He grasped her by the hips, spread his legs, still sitting on his calves, and pulled her the rest of the distance to him. He looked down again as she let her legs fall to the sides, spreading them again, but keeping her feet on his chest. He reached down and touched her again, rubbing until she was panting lightly, then when he felt she was aroused enough, he took his penis in his hand, and guided it inside of her. He thrust into her, and leaned forward onto his hands, his inner legs still cupping her butt. He was pleased to find that he was able to come down onto his hands without causing her any apparent discomfort. In fact, she was quite flexible; he was even able to straighten his legs more so that he could thrust freely into her.

Looking into her face as he plunged in and out of her, he felt a deep sense of satisfaction and pleasure. She was beautiful, her eyes half closed and glowing blue-green with desire. As he thrust into her again, her body arched towards him and she moaned. He couldn't take his eyes off of her, his desire growing and building as he watched her respond to him thrusting into her.

Soon, he saw her breathing speed up, her hands tightening on his arms. Her eyes drooped shut and she began to jerk upwards towards him. In waves, her vaginal walls contracted around him, until he closed his eyes and let his own release come. He buried himself in her and felt the throbbing of his release bring her to another trembling, jerking orgasm.

He smiled at her for a moment before slipping out of her and sitting back. He watched her slowly, carefully fold her legs, and realized that this may not be a position it would be wise to use often, despite how much he himself had enjoyed it. He sat back and looked at her as she lay languidly on the pallet. "Come, lazy kitten, we must be on our way."

They left the inn, going to the flight master, where they each commissioned a wyvern to the outpost in Thousand needles, where they would rest again before the final leg of the trip to Tanaris.

When they landed at Freewind Post, Groll saw the fatigue clearly in every line of Shantille's body. But she said nothing as they walked towards the inn, as Groll preferred to stop and eat somewhere, rather than eating in flight- it made him queasy, really. They entered the coolness of the inn in the late afternoon. Groll realized that the flight to Gadgetzan would take them into the wee hours of the morning, and recognized with a sinking feeling that they would need to stay here. Shantille was obviously not as capable of dealing with physical fatigue as he was, so he would have to accept the fact that she was going to be too tired to continue. Worse than that, he knew without asking, that she would do it anyway, exhausting herself in the process. _Stubborn woman_, he thought, half with irritation, half with admiration.

He watched her eat, still concerned that she not eat too much, too fast. He recognized that he should have taken more care to ensure that she'd gotten enough sleep, as well, given the fact that she'd so recently been through so much. Days without food, along with physical abuse by her kidnappers and the slaver (a thought that made him want to return immediately to Orgrimmar after all- for vengeance); several battles; the stress of his own actions towards her; and then a late and nearly sleepless night. He cursed himself for a moment, until she reached out and touched him on the arm, her soft hand as gentle as the quick look she gave him.

Her voice carried to him, just barely, the words so softly spoken that he barely heard them, "Don't scowl so, Groll, everything will be okay." She returned immediately to her food, and he forced himself to rearrange his face into a calmer, no doubt less murderous, frown.

When they were done, he informed her that they were going to stay there, and they went to find the Innkeep, to buy a room. Shantille made no protest, following him quietly with only a nod. He wondered if it were her nature to be so agreeable, or if she was simply too tired to argue the point. He supposed it didn't really matter, except that he was used to his instructions being followed immediately, and he'd been uncomfortable and surprised when she had argued with him about going back to Orgrimmar. He rather hoped he wouldn't have to cope with such incidents often, particularly given the terrible way he'd felt afterwards.

To his surprise, this Innkeep also greeted her by name, a smile on her face as well. Shantille bowed to the big tauren woman, and then was swallowed up in a boisterous hug. "It's been months, Shantille, we've all missed you!" The two women chattered for a few minutes, before Shantille drew the conversation back to getting a room for the night. Once they had their key, it was a few moments longer before they could leave, the tauren woman obviously wanting to chat longer.

The innkeep never questioned their choice to share a room, and Groll knew this was most likely due to the proximity of the raceway. No doubt odd partnerships passed through on their way there rather frequently. In fact, was the situation less desperate, he would probably visit the raceway- a good crash was always fun to watch. But there was no time now.

He was relieved that they were closer to their destination, but strongly distressed by not having the rest of his gear and enchantments. She must rest, and they must be on their way. The delay, however objectionable he found it, was necessary.

This time, he gently helped her undress, ignoring his arousal at the sight of her slender, naked body. Then he carefully helped her into the bed, where he watched as her eyes immediately dropped closed. He sat watching her, and shortly her breathing became slow and even as deep sleep claimed her. He brushed her hair back from her face, wanting still to touch her. So deep was her exhaustion that she didn't even stir.

He thought back over the last few days. He thought of her words, that now seemed so long ago, "You're very ugly, do you know that?" He watched her sleep, and wondered. She was right, of course, he was ugly. All orcs were ugly, that's just the way things were. So why was she so attracted to him? Just as he was unquestionably ugly, there was also no doubt whatsoever that she was deeply attracted to him. What did she see when she looked at him that was so different from what everyone else saw? What was it that made her unquestionably accept his decisions, despite the terrible things he had done to her, and in front of her?

A chill ran through him then. Perhaps it was that which she wanted. Perhaps it was that which attracted her to him. Perhaps it was the darkness that dwelt perpetually in him that she desired. He remembered the grotesque crawl of shadow magic on the face of the troll the day before and recoiled from her. For all her seeming gentleness and fine talk of service, she certainly had her own dark side. Suddenly agitated, unsure why, he stalked from the room, remembering in the last instant to close the door softly to let her continue sleeping. He locked it behind him, though this time he would be in the common room below, and not leave the inn. He didn't want to leave her at all, yet he suddenly also wanted to be as far away from the shadows she embraced as possible.

Conflicted, he stood outside the door, lingering in his internal confusion. Finally, he decided to see what it was about her that the Innkeep seemed to adore so much. It wasn't that it was hard for him to see, it was just that he suddenly needed to be reassured that this was the real her, not the darkness that had nearly killed two men. He recognized the double standard in it, but he also knew that when he killed, he enjoyed it. It was a part of himself that he truly felt no pride in. He had never killed except for food or for defense- of himself or others- but when he did kill, he relished it in a cold, deep, almost frightening way. Was that how she felt? He shuddered at the thought.

He walked down the stairs, and introduced himself to the Innkeep. She greeted him, then, "You're guarding Shantille, right?" He nodded. "She's a good one, one of the best. You take good care of her, or a lot of people will be coming for you."

He grunted, "I'll be sure to do that. How do you know her, anyway?" This was an acceptable question for a guard to ask, even a rather common one.

"She comes 'round here often," the innkeep (whose name was Abeqwa, he recalled) answered. "She comes with some of the new recruits, helping them, teaching them, showing them around. Always helping someone, it seems like. They all adore her. You might see them years later, and they'll say, 'I was here with Shantille,' and several others visiting often chime in. Then they all get to talking about it, and they'll be up all night, talking about where they met her and how she helped them. Amazing, really."

"But what about you, you seem to like her a lot, too," he said. He watched her cleaning the small bar as she answered.

"Ah, well. She tips well, that one does. Always remembers to ask after my calves, and always knows what to say to reassure me that they'll grow up hale and hearty, despite their escapades. Rarely hear her talk bad about anybody, and then it's never anybody I wouldn't have worse to say about. She's respectful, she is. Friendly to nearly everyone, until they cross her, then she's mostly still polite. Only seen it once, feller wouldn't stop asking her for handouts. That's another thing about her, she's independent, maybe to a fault. And don't let it fool you, she's generous, too, if you're not a selfish beggar or a user." The tauren stopped cleaning the bar, and looked at him then, rather shrewdly. "Aint yet met anyone who didn't like her after spending more'n a few days with her."

He nodded, "I know what you mean," he tried to keep it nonchalant, noncommittal. "She seems likeable enough to me."

The woman straightened up then, shaking her mane in a familiar, unconscious gesture. "She looked tired, ill maybe. I don't know what's going on with her, but if I can help, you tell me. I'll thank you for it." She held up her hand as he started to speak, "It's not my business unless she tells me so, or you do. She won't ask me for help, she rarely asks anyone. So I'm going to rely on you, if something arises that I can help with, to tell me so. If she trusts you, you're worthy of it, and you'll have my trust as well."

A cold feeling settled into his stomach. With the way he'd acted- at his age, no less- he didn't feel worthy of anyone's trust. Shantille had forgiven him, but he was finding forgiving himself to be much harder. And the more he learned about her, the harder it got. To listen to this woman, he'd raped the sweetest, nicest person to ever live. But he'd seen Shantille kill (or at least help), and he'd seen her wield magic that most orcs abhorred staunchly for its nearly pure evil nature. These were not the actions of a nice person, were they? He shook his head, confused, unsure. Mostly because if he judged her by the same standards as he judged himself by, she would be either a saint or a monster- like him.

Leaving the common room, he returned to the room they shared, this one also having a pallet on the floor for him. He pondered resting on it, in case lying down with her might awaken her. Then he looked at her. Quiet and still on the bed, surrounded by dark brown bedding, she looked so pale, almost ephemeral. He realized that almost all he knew of her was that she was forgiving, kind, gentle, generous, and helpful…. And that she wielded dark magic and was attracted to someone he knew for sure was a killer at heart.

He was no less confused than before, but he found some degree of comfort in the knowledge that others also saw her gentleness and kindness. So if she was somehow fooling him with it, he wasn't alone. He curled up around her, drawing her to him. She sighed in her sleep, and a brief smile flickered across her face before she settled in again.

He tightened the arm he had wrapped around her, and drank deeply of the scent rising from her hair. He kissed the top of her head. Perhaps he wasn't so confused, after all.

Having been up late with her the night before, as well, it wasn't very long before he slept, as well. He would use the minor attunement crystal later to tell Morgor that he'd been delayed yet again, knowing that his friend would understand and wait for him. It's what brothers did for each other.

Hours later, she awoke, still obviously tired. This time, he left her to bathe herself, going down to get her a hot meal, bringing it back up to the room with him. As he unlocked the door and came in, he saw her stand in the tub, once more an orc-sized tub for his comfort. He held the towel for her as she stepped up on the bench, and then onto the wide lip of the tub. He looked up at her, water sloughing off of her naked body as she momentarily towered over him before the first steep step brought her down to face level with him.

A sudden anger suffused him. He didn't want to be confused. He didn't want to be attracted to her. He wanted her to be ugly, he wanted her to be cruel, he wanted it to be easy to walk away. He wanted to go back to his old life of freedom and clarity. She must have seen it in his face, because she stopped like a statue, staring at him silently. He fought the rising tide of his anger, but realized it was a losing battle. The now-distant rational part of him knew he should leave. He really should. He should let go of her and walk out of the room. He shouldn't even have come back in here in the state of confusion he was in.

It was too late now. He was angry, but he was filled with a consuming lust, as well. His penis was so hard now that it pressed roughly against the breeches he wore, his armor having been discarded upon arrival. He jerked her against him, roughly, desperately. Tangling his hand in her hair, holding it firmly so that her head was immobilized, he crushed his lips down onto hers- so small, so delicate, and so delicious. He drew her lower lip into his own lips, and pressed on it with the tip of his tongue, flickering it back and forth, crushing it. Soft, so soft… everything about her was soft. He treated her upper lip to the same of callous, rough investigation, then pressed her mouth open and slipped the tip of his tongue inside. He explored her there, too, the smoothness of her teeth, the softness of her flesh. So very soft…

Releasing her mouth and letting go of her hair, he took her by the waist and stood her up on the top of the tub again, and stepped onto the lowest step, his other foot on the upper step. This brought him to the perfect height to take one breast into one hand, and the other into his mouth, his other hand gripping her hip, holding her steady.

He kneaded her breast with his hand, roughly, firmly, letting up only slightly when she whimpered slightly in pain. He wanted to punish her. To punish her for his own confusion, to punish her for disrupting his life, even to punish her for desiring someone as dark and warped as he. His tongue on her breast was rough, probing, exploring the softness of it. He felt his anger start to cool as he kneaded her softness, but then even this angered him.

He picked her up off the tub, feeling her hands on his shoulders, soft and white against him. With a snarl, he took her to the pallet, and pushed her to knees, so that she was kneeling in front of him. She knelt there, silent and still, as if afraid to anger him by moving. He almost laughed, _too late for that_.

Looking down at her, a thousand thoughts flickered through his mind of what he could do to her, some of them so dark and cruel that they chilled him, that he could even think of it. Finally, he walked around her, looking at her from every angle. When he was behind her again, he knelt down behind her, and once more gripped her hair. He pulled her head back, leaning forward, not quite touching her, "What sorcery have you worked on me, woman? What have you done?"

"These choices are your own, Groll, I have done nothing."

It was true. He knew it was true. He couldn't blame her for his own actions. The statement, said so clearly and honestly, unnerved him and fueled his anger. He pushed her away from him, causing her to fall to all fours. Lurching away from her abruptly, he stalked the room, trying not to look at her. When he finally did, she was sitting on her calves, watching him quietly.

He walked to her then, looking down at her again, so small and vulnerable at his feet. He squatted in front of her, and leaned forward. When she moved back, as if to escape, he felt his anger peak. Moving swiftly, far faster than should be expected from someone of his size, he flipped her over, pulling her hips roughly against his erect, slightly dripping penis. "Tell me that you don't want it, and I'll go. Tell me that you don't want me to fuck you, and I'll get up and I will leave the room right now. Tell me that you don't want me, and I'll be gone."

He waited for a moment. Waited for her to send him, and the darkness inside him, away. He waited for her to shut him out, to reject the evil that dwelled in him. When it didn't come, when she didn't even struggle, he reached down and unlaced the flap in his breeches, then his underclothing, which usually allowed him to relieve his bladder without removing all of his clothes. When his penis was finally freed from its confines, he shoved into her without preamble, without waiting to even see if she was wet. He vaguely noticed that she was very wet, but from bath or arousal, he neither knew nor cared for the moment.

He pushed her down so that her face was in the pallet, opening her up more so that he could penetrate her more deeply. He thrust in and out of her again, this time with complete abandon. He rammed hard against her hips, watching with fascination as her breasts, softer and more pliable than orc women's breasts, bounced freely. He continued relentlessly, rapidly, until he felt himself building up to a release. When it came, he felt her respond to it, as if the very act of him releasing into her, his penis throbbing as it pushed his seed out and into the depths of her body, made her convulse in her own release.

He pulled away from her, suddenly ashamed again. He leaned back against the wall, one arm thrown over one knee, raking a hand through his hair. He looked at her; she had lifted and was sitting on her calves, looking back, down, and towards him, but not directly at him.

"Shantille," he said, and she looked at him then. Her face was sad, lost, unsure. "Come here, kitten," he said then, overwhelmed with regret. She crawled the short distance to him, laying her head on the leg he had bent on the floor. She lay on her side, facing him, and he looked down and saw the bruises below her butt, where he had ground against her pelvis. He winced and wished he could undo it, go back and make it all go away. He brushed the hair away from her face, rubbing her cheek with his thumb.

But instead of going away, the confusion nagged at him, while he tried to reconcile it all.

She sat up then, and moved into his lap, sitting on the lower leg, and leaning back against the upper leg. "What did I do wrong? Why were you so angry with me?" He felt a deep emotional pain lance through him, and he pulled her against him. The plaintive question cut him to the core of who he was. He knew that he'd just hurt her more with his anger even than with his body. He realized then, that, if he could cry, he would have in that moment. But he had forgotten how to, long ago.

He rocked her slowly in his arms, "Nothing, kitten, you did nothing wrong. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5

He placed a finger under her chin and tilted her head up towards his. "I was angry. I'm sorry. Not at you, at myself."

She nodded, and tried to look down. He held her face still, and watched as one silent tear traced a glittering path down her cheek. "Do you want me to leave?"

Another shock of pain lanced through him. He groaned, letting go of her chin and burying a hand in her hair to pull her against him. "No, oh, deities no, kitten." He had told her to leave, and he thought she should leave. But did he want her to leave? No. The answer was a definitive and firm no. He wanted her here. He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her. But he also feared what that meant, about her, about him—and for them both, as well.

"But you being with me is dangerous for you, it's dangerous for us both. If you were smart, you'd run away from me, far away. And not only because of what will happen if we are found out. I'm an orc, Shantille, you're an elf. A particularly fragile, delicate, sensitive elf, at that." He lifted a hand to where she could see it, massive and powerful; "We are worlds apart, no matter how it may seem." The same hand reached out again and cupped her head. "We can't spend our lives locked in inns, nor can I control my instincts forever. You've just had a taste of what it means to be with an orc, are you sure that's what you want, even for the time being?"

She lifted her head up to look directly at him. "Groll, I don't want to leave. I will if you tell me to, but that is the only thing that could make me leave right now."

He shook his head. "Foolish elf, sweet, foolish elf."

Then she asked him a question that stopped his thoughts dead in their tracks and pulled him up short, "Why don't you leave, Groll? If it's so easy to leave, then why are you trying to make me do it, instead of doing it yourself?"

He leaned forward again, drinking the scent of cloves as if it were the finest of wine, "It's not easy to leave. It's not easy to leave at all. I know the danger I am putting you in, have put you in, yet I don't want to go. I know I should. I know it would be the right thing, but I can't bring myself to do it."

"Nor I." It was muffled, snuggled into his chest as she was, but he heard it. He felt a surge of joy, akin to that he often felt in battle, shiver down his spine. Holding her a while longer, he got up and went down the stairs to get something for them to eat, after dressing and tucking her back into the pallet with her promise to wait for him there.

They ate and then slept, both of them physically and mentally exhausted. He found himself waking periodically, as if to reassure himself that she hadn't left. He found himself once lying on his back, with her actually laying sprawled on top of him. He laid for a while, wakeful, his thoughts going back over the thousand questions that still haunted him. How could he do this to her? If they were found like that, there was only danger. How could he stay with someone who could be attracted to such a creature as he? How was it possible for such a lovely woman to embrace an orc- any orc?

At last, he slept again, and dreamed of her surrounded by trolls and screaming while he was helplessly entombed in ice forever. He awoke sweating, to find her lying against his side now, sleeping peacefully. And there, in the dark, in the silence, confronted by the possible future that awaited her, he struggled to hold back the keening wail of pain the dream left in its wake. In the dream, he had not only failed to protect her, but he had delivered her up. Never, he realized, could he do that. He couldn't give her up to anyone, and he could never give her over to evil. She was too pure, too precious, too fragile.

No, he couldn't leave her. He couldn't leave because she needed him. She needed him; she needed his shield, his sword, and his protection. She had Power, yes, but not like his. Not tangible and real and deadly. No matter that she had been able to inflict damage, it hadn't been enough.

Yes. He would stay. He would stay with her and risk the danger to them both, because she needed him to. She needed him to be there, between her and the screams that still echoed in his memory.

The next morning when they rose, he woke to find her sitting on the pallet, watching him as she brushed her hair. She sat cross-legged and nude, but with sweat gleaming on her pale body. He grunted, sitting up and scratching the stubble that once more covered his brutish jaw. Shaking his head slightly, he stretched his massive shoulders and back, and then leaned forward to stretch out over his legs as well.

"You look like you've been having fun without me," he said.

She grinned, her eyes flashing brighter and her face lighting up, "No, I've been exercising while you were lazing about, orc."

He chuckled, but didn't rise to the bait. He had hurt her last night, and the memory of the bruises he had inflicted upon her stung his consciousness. He would not take her this morning, even when she offered. He would let her heal, even knowing that it would likely be days, if not weeks, before he could hold her again, before he could sit with her like this again, before he could feel her wrapped around him.

He stood up, and raised her to her feet with one proffered hand. She rose gracefully, rising to her feet to look up at him, lilting, enticing, lovely. He caressed her arm, leaning towards her. He struggled for control for a moment as she leaned towards him, then simply said, "We must go. I shouldn't have slept so long. If we don't get going, I'll stay here all day and maybe never leave." He grinned at her, and kissed her, lightly, not abusing her soft lips as he had the night before.

He didn't help her dress, not wanting to arouse himself more than he already was. He accepted her help with his armor, and then grasped their packs. They left the room, and he looked back one last time. Little did he know it in that moment, but for years to come, this particular inn, this particular room, would live boldly and brightly in his memory.

But for now, he closed the door and walked away, following her swaying hips down the hallway and almost regretting his decision to get going. The haunting memory of bruises rose to the surface of his mind, and the doubt fled. He would not take her while she was injured still from his ill use of her.

Exiting the inn, they commissioned 2 wyverns, and sped off towards Tanaris.

When they landed in the desert town, Groll headed immediately towards the Inn. Morgor had informed him that he would wait there, and so Groll, with his elf in tow, went directly that way. Stepping inside the comparative dark coolness of the interior of the inn, Groll saw his oldest and closest friend sitting at a table.

Their eyes met, and Groll felt a sense of coming home. He clomped forward, happy to see his sworn-brother again. They clasped their left forearms together, a rare and telling gesture of total trust and brotherhood. "Honor and glory!" Morgor greeted him.

"Long live my brother," Groll grunted back, the words rolling off his tongue like second nature.

"I see you have company, brother," Morgor said, indicating Shantille. "This the trouble you were talking about?"

Shantille stepped forward, placing her right hand in Morgor's. "I'm Shantille," she said, sinking into a deep curtsy that, surprisingly, brought a grin to Morgor's broad face. "I'm afraid you've pegged me truly, sir, for I am indeed, trouble."

Morgor chuckled at her. "I can see that for myself," he said, leering at her. Groll fought a surge of irritation at the disrespect, but was surprised to hear Shantille simply chuckle.

"I will take that compliment, sir," she said, then after a purposeful pause, "with me as I go and get us some drinks. What can I get for you?"

Both Morgor and Groll made their requests, then sat down at the table.

"I've not told you all there is to tell, Morgor. She's in real trouble, trouble I don't think I can cope with alone. I'm going to need your help." Morgor's face creased into a deep frown.

"You don't ask me that often, Groll. You'll need to tell me more than what you have so far."

"I can't tell you more, Morgor, I don't know any more. I don't know where the trolls are from, nor do I know why they want her." He fell silent as Shantille returned and handed them drinks, then resumed, "I can only tell you what I have already via the crystals. Perhaps there is more that she can tell you, though I think we've covered everything except when and how she was taken the first time."

It was as he suspected, she was taken in her sleep. Probing questions continued for several hours, to no avail. She was open about everything, though volunteered little. Not, he felt, out of reticence, but simply because she likely wouldn't know what might be significant. At last, she retired for the evening. Groll followed her to her room, pleased to note that it was at the top of the stairs, visible from his seat in the common room.

When he returned, he and Morgor spoke at length about various things. It was late when he finally broached the subject he most wanted answers to.

"Morgor, what kind of man am I?" He looked at Morgor calmly, but with trepidation.

Morgor looked at him for a long moment, studying him. He seemed to be measuring him, weighing him, studying what kind of answer he might be wanting. "You're a good man, Groll. You've always been a good man. You've brought only honor and glory to your clan, and to me as your brother. Many have been the times I would like to have been your brother by the same sire or mother." He watched Groll shrewdly.

Groll sighed, unsure if the answer settled something for him or not. "I have dishonored myself and my clan and even all our people in the last few days," he said. "In my life, I've done terrible things. I'm a killer, I enjoy killing."

Morgor shrugged. "You are what life has made you, Groll, as we all are. You don't kill without reason, or simply for the thrill of it. You fight for honor and glory, not for sport.

"Why are you asking me this, anyway?" Morgor continued to study him closely.

"Do you ever think about having a family?" Groll asked him.

"Not me, I enjoy my life the way it is. But you? You've always needed to have a family." Groll stared at him in shocked surprise.

"Don't gape, man, you look stupid. If you want to know why she loves you, why don't you just ask her?" As Groll managed to gape stupidly yet again, Morgor said, "No one else would know. But I've known you for my entire life. Whatever you have done to dishonor yourself, I recommend you make up for it from now on. And don't get caught."

Morgor stood up then, "And now I'm going to bed, man. I suggest you sleep inside, in front of the elf's door tonight, else those trolls come looking for her again." With a rough wink, he swaggered off to bed.

Groll stood up and silently followed Morgor's suggestion, quietly closing the door behind him, and looking at his elf as she slept, pale and glowing, on their bedrolls in place of the usual inn-provided pallet. Quietly, pensively, he stripped and slipped under the covers with her. She sighed again as he curled up against her back, but settled immediately. An echo of Morgor's words flickered through his mind, "just ask her."

He would when they awoke. He started to drift to sleep, but was suddenly jolted awake. The rest of Morgor's words sank into him suddenly and with a profound weight. "If you want to know why she loves you." He looked down at her. Did she love him?

Did he love her?

The morning dawned and voices awakened him. A moment of panic seized him then. She was gone. No warm presence lay against him, no sleepy green eyes looked up into his. Then the voices from below drifted up to him. Sweet, familiar laughter floated up, followed by the deep guffaw of his friend. He got up and dressed quickly, equally angry that she had left without him, and pleased that it seemed she was getting on so well with Morgor.

He fought a surprising tide of overwhelming lust as he saw her. Her hair was swept up this time, braided into a plait down the back that fell towards her slender waist. In place of her robe, she again wore the simple white dress. Her slender form, even with her back to him, aroused him deliciously. He was reminded that it had been more than a day since he had been inside her.

He arrived at the table and sat down beside her, trying to be nonchalant, trying not to sit too close, not to sit objectionably far. He didn't know how to not care about her anymore. It was as if he'd forgotten how to be impartial to someone.

When he sat down, the conversation broke, and she turned the full force of her magnificent smile upon him. He realized then that, anyone who knew her would know immediately that she cared for him. It was the color of her eyes that betrayed her. When she turned the same smile upon him that had a moment before been a deep, bright green, turned immediately to a shade of deep aquamarine. She looked away, and they shifted again.

She looked back at him again, then, "What would you like to eat, Groll?"

He shrugged, impartial. "Food," he grunted.

"I think I can manage that," she said, rising gracefully from the bench they shared.

Turning back to Morgor, Groll asked the shaman for the trinket he'd meant to get the night before, and was relieved to have it in his hands. He quickly traded out the old trinket, pocketing it for sale. Now that the new trinket had been fit into the socket of his crystal, he would be able to activate it with simply a thought. Never again would he be bound in a tomb of magic, helplessly watching as his elf did the fighting.

"Groll! I knew I'd find you where-ever ol' Morgor was!" the strident voice of Gormalla carried easily across the room.

Groll cringed, surprised at his own reaction to her. She was an occasional sexual partner, one that he usually welcomed, if only for the release and the lack of expectations between them. Though, when he was honest with himself, he knew that she wanted to be associated with him, and she had even proposed marriage at one point, a simple convenience for them both. But it had been some time since he'd seen her, and he felt that her timing couldn't possibly be worse.

Because really, the last thing he wanted was sex. That is, from anyone besides his elf. As badly as he wanted Shantille, he wanted to avoid Gormalla. But appearances were appearances, and he grunted a welcome as she sat down beside him, the bench no doubt still warm from the much smaller form that had recently vacated it.

As Gormalla sat down, Morgor's face assumed its customary indifferent look. When Gormalla came around, it seemed that Morgor was always quiet and busy with enchanting or making totems or picking at his fingernails. If he didn't know better, Groll would almost assume that he didn't like her and never had. He realized that this was the first time that had ever occurred to him. He wondered idly why it was that Morgor might not like her. She was pushy and brash, but no more so than any other orc woman.

Before their greetings were even commenced, Shantille was back. She placed food down in front of both Groll and Morgor. Groll noticed that Morgor thanked her with more than simple courtesy, he seemed to genuinely like her, his deep voice filled with warmth. Gormalla's eyes narrowed and she looked at Shantille. "Is this your slave, Groll?" she asked loudly, causing several of the patrons and workers to stare in their direction. "She doesn't look like she'd be much use to anyone." Gormalla laughed, then quieted when she realized that she was the only one amused. "Get me some breakfast, elf," she said then, turning her attention back to Groll.

He was surprised when Shantille simply bowed to Gormalla, without a whisper of complaint, bringing back two plates of food. She set one in front of Gormalla, and turned to go to her seat, now beside Morgor. Gormalla reached out and took the second plate, putting it in front of herself. She began to eat, entirely ignoring the surprised looks on everyone else's faces. Shantille, however, regained her composure immediately, walking back to the bar to pick up more food.

As Shantille was getting her food, Morgor asked Gormalla, "How did you know about that?"

She waved one hand airily, "Oh, Modaire told me."

"Ah," Morgor said, "Perhaps I shouldn't tell him so much, if he is going to be so free with information."

"Oh, don't worry, he didn't tell anyone else. He only told me because he thought you could use my help. He'll be here soon, too. We want to know what all the fuss is about." She looked at Shantille. "I don't really see it, myself." She went back to gulping down food, and Groll felt the same vague disgust he always felt when she ate. He couldn't help but notice, as she sat down across from him, that Shantille's eating habits, not including the first time he'd had the opportunity to see her eat, were very delicate, even refined.

Food spewing when she spoke, Gormalla asked Shantille, "So they just kind of grabbed you and sold you, for no reason at all? And now they want to kill you? Or maybe just poke you?" She stabbed her fork forward and back in a sexual motion, like a lewd, pronged penis and laughed uproariously, thumping the table so hard the cutlery rattled.

Morgor pushed his plate away as he carefully tried to keep his disgust at the food particles that had landed on it off of his face. Shantille set her cup down, and said simply, "So it would seem." Her calm never wavered, no resentment, no irritation showed on her face. Unless, that is, one knew her as well as Groll did. Her eyes glowed nearly white, the only betrayal of her irritation at the orc woman's blatant rudeness- even for an orc.

"No, I definitely don't see what all da fuss is about," Gormalla said smugly, and went back to eating for a moment. "So when are we leaving? Do you even know where to go?" She laughed then, "Do you really trust an elf? No doubt she brought it on herself." Her eyes turned onto Shantille, and she grinned. "You steal something, elf?" Then she laughed. "Nah, I'm kidding, I'm sure you're being honest with us. Why wouldn't you be?"

Groll was appalled, what was Gormalla doing? Her open snidery, catty and direct, irritated him. He knew that it was common among orc women to jostle such for social status, but most were intelligent enough to recognize that females of other races had no interest in establishing position within the orc community. He'd never seen Gormalla act this way, but a look at Morgor's resigned face made him realized that it was simply because he had never paid much attention to it.

They ate in silence, Morgor drinking stoically from the mug of ale, ignoring his food. After a few moments passed, Shantille stood up. She left and went to the bar, returning with a new plate of food. She switched the plates deftly, taking the soiled food from Morgor and setting the fresh in front of him. She patted him companionably on one broad, mail-clad shoulder. "I should have noticed that your eggs weren't cooked fully," she said. "I apologize."

Gormalla grunted, and handed the elf one cleaned plate, and began tearing into the second. One delicate eyebrow rose elegantly as Shantille took it, and Groll watched her walk back towards the bar, the graceful sway of her hips once more enticing and delighting him. He fought the instinct to simply get up and take her to their room and take her on the spot.

By the time Shantille had eaten a fair third of the food on her plate, Gormalla, Groll, and Morgor had finished their own breakfasts. Gormalla stood up then, and looked at Groll. It was the long, slow, hungry look of an orc woman wanting to be ridden. All that Groll needed to do was to go to her room with her, to accept the invitation inherent in the avid, greedy way she looked at him. He shook his head, braids brushing against his breastplate. "We'll need to be heading out soon," he said, "no time for pleasures this morning."

She scowled furiously at his rejection, and stomped off towards her room. She turned, "Modaire will be here in an hour or so, he's agreed to come with us." Modaire was a Blood Elf mage that frequently journeyed with them. He was generally quite pleasant, so it was surprising to Groll that he'd spoken so freely to Gormalla, of all people.

Shrugging, irritated by her boldness and the fact that she had assumed she would be welcome to come with them, Groll scowled as he turned back to the table. Shantille stood up and cleared the plates, though she could have left it to the little goblin wench who was moving amongst the tables.

And whom, in fact, Shantille was speaking with at the moment. The tiny goblin was animated, happy, and the two of them laughed together for a while before Shantille sat down at the table again with Groll and Morgor. For a time, they considered what to do, and both Groll and Morgor rejected the notion of traveling via mage portal. It was simply too easily tracked. They would have to take the long route, returning to Borean Tundra, where Morgor had associates who might be able to learn more about who the trolls were that were pursuing them.

At last, the tentative plans laid, Groll stood. "We'll go pack up and get ready to go," he said.

Morgor looked at him, placid, expressionless. "I doubt we'll be in an inn again for quite some time. I might take advantage of the amenities it offers, while we're still here. But be quick about it, we wouldn't want anyone to think that you're lazy."

Groll caught the double meaning clearly, but said simply, "I just may do that." By force of will, he managed to follow Shantille all the way to their room without touching her even once.

The moment they were in the room, and the bolt snapped home on the lock, that will faded, and he pulled her against him, kissing her with urgent ardor.

She arched willingly against him, and he ran his hands down her back, pulling her dress up, gathering it around her waist. He opened his breeches, setting his furiously jutting erection free. Frustrated, he paused, not knowing what to do. He wanted to be inside of her, but feared she would be unable to stretch her legs around him. He ground his teeth, caught up in his nearly desperate drive to be inside her, to feel her warmth, to feel her liquid desire drip down his heavy scrotum.

"Pick me up," she breathed, "it's okay. I can do it." With a groan, he lifted her, and felt her legs bend up, her calves at his side, sticking back awkwardly behind him. But as she had twice before, she managed to get her legs around him- enough for him to slide into her warm, welcoming, dripping wetness. He groaned as he slid home in her, and pressed her butt against him for a moment, before he began to lift her, using the sheer force of his arms to raise her and lower her up and down on his urgently thrusting penis, his hips rocking in synchronized motion with his arms.

He heard her panting faster now, and her low, sexy, sex-deepened voice whispered across him, "Yes, Groll, yes. Deities, you touch me so perfectly inside."

He paused for a moment, holding her against him, both of them trembling, "Not yet, kitten. Oh no, not so fast." It might be his last chance for a while, and though he knew they had to be quick, he wanted to savor her heat on his penis, to hear her moans a bit longer, to feel the gripping of her vaginal muscles around him. He knew she couldn't keep her legs around him for long, so he wouldn't prolong it too much… but prolong it he would.

He waited for her to calm, and began moving again, lifting and thrusting, lifting and thrusting. Her weight was nothing to him, and he found it easy, almost relaxing, to bounce her there. He stopped her once more, then his own orgasm once. Then he began to shift her hips slightly as he entered her, up and down, and back and forth. From her sharp intake of breath, he could tell that she was pleased by the action, and felt her building up again.

This time, he growled low in his throat, ready to let her go. He lifted his eyes from the breasts jiggling in her bodice and met her eyes with his. "Let go, kitten, I want to feel you cum while I do." His words drew a gasp from her, and her eyes widened as her body took over. She lurched against him, once, twice… and then he thrust abruptly into her, feeling himself pouring into her as her muscles grasped him, again and again, as if to drink deeply of all he had to offer her.

He lifted her so that her legs slipped down, straight now, but not able to support her weight. He held her against him, supporting her, keeping her standing, and kissed her again. A long, slow, gentle kiss this time.

For a moment, he experienced a twinge of regret. He could have asked her why she loved him- if she loved him- but he had wanted to be inside her too badly to take the logical route. Tasting her sweetness, her softness, he let the regret dissolve. Maybe, just maybe, it didn't matter why.

He lifted his head, looking down at her. Seeing her ephemeral beauty as she tilted her head up towards him, he realized that it did still matter. It mattered tremendously, for so many reasons. The biggest reason being, he wanted it to be real, to be lasting. He wanted that very, very much in that moment.

They packed and dressed for the road quickly, their focus on speed and efficiency. It was important not to attract notice to the length of time it took them to get ready to get going. Should anyone (besides Morgor, of course) suspect anything, it would become ever more difficult for them. Shantille left first, and soon Groll followed. It was logical that it should be that way, given that armor takes far longer to don than a robe.

By the time they were finished, Modaire had arrived. The urbane, elder elf greeted Shantille warmly upon Morgor's introduction. They spoke for some time, until Groll arrived. "Shantille has been telling me more of what has happened. I must confess that I'm entirely unsure as to what this is all about.

"What I do know, and which I suspect Shantille has not informed you- likely ignorant of this fact- is that she is indeed well known in our community. There are reasonably few of us left, and as such many of us either know each other, or of each other. And Shantille is known, and known of, by far more than most. And while the fact is that she approaches celebrity status with many, this still cannot account for the trolls' unnatural interest in her," he went on to say.

Shantille was blushing by this point, a delicate pink stain that covered her face almost as if she wore a harlequin mask. Morgor looked at her, "Is this true? Are you that well known?"

She shook her head, "He exaggerates, or has heard exaggerated stories from friends or mutual acquaintances. Often people are given to exaggeration if they receive unexpected help."

Morgor looked at Groll then, "What about you, what do you think?"

Groll pondered for a moment, looking back on the journey that had culminated here. "I cannot speak to that, I've known her too short a time. What I can say, though, is this: Everywhere we have been, they've known her. Children have stopped her in the streets. You saw the serving wench stop her? The Innkeeps have all done the same. She inspires loyalty in people.

"I cannot, however, see this as being necessarily a reason for kidnapping." As he finished speaking, Groll wanted to comfort her, seeing her visible discomfort at the conversation. It was this fascinating humility that drew people in the most, he thought. Humility, however, was definitely not something that generally attracted trolls, either.

"It's almost impossible, though," said Modaire, "to discern the intents of the scourge. Arthas has been so corrupted, that it's impossible to say what madness has possessed him in this mad search for an obscure elf woman of common line and few noticeable distinctions." He laid his hand on her arm, "No offense, dear."

"I am not offended by the truth, Modaire," she replied, covering his hand with hers, with a gentle pat. He beamed at her, obviously enchanted.

_Deities, how I hate mages_, Groll thought. He was irritated by their right to touch in public, a right that should be his, but which was denied him. _Even old mages_. Just as a sense of agitation began to rise in him, Gormalla entered the room, forcing her way through the crowd that had slowly gathered in the room. She knocked a plate out of the serving wench's hands, and then berated the little goblin woman for having gotten in the way.

Groll turned to Morgor, and asked softly, "Is there a way to drop her from the expedition that won't arouse suspicion?" While she was a very competent warrior, capable of dual wielding axes that even most warriors would find to require both hands, she was irritating and difficult to deal with for extended periods of time.

"Well, can we get going? Has someone come up with something more worthwhile as a plan by now?" Gormalla had arrived, managing to somehow be even more annoying than usual. Groll wondered why he'd never noticed it before.

"For now, we've decided to head for Borean Tundra so that Morgor can check in with his sources and find out if there have been any disturbances in any of the known Scourge areas," for some reason, coming from Modaire, it seemed to mollify her. She grunted and followed them as they stepped out of the inn together, now all attuned through the crystals every child in Azeroth was born with that allowed communication and an unwavering sense of each others' power and physical status. No matter where any of them went, until they chose to detune from each other, they would know each other's basic status- healthy or harmed, power-full or power-drained.

"So, where's the portal?" Gormalla demanded.

"There will be no portal, portals are too easily tracked. We will fly to Orgrimmar, with a stop at Camp Tuarjaro for a night's rest." Modaire told her.

"Too easily tracked? That's absurd. Some troll slaver trash is chasing down a stupid elf, and I have to ride all day for two days, just because this trash may figure out where we went? I won't do it. I refuse." Gormalla's arms crossed, and she huffed angrily, her red eyes snapping with anger.

"I will not provide you with a portal, Gormalla," Modaire's voice was surprisingly firm and uncompromising. Gormalla's chin dropped and she stared at him, her reddish skin deepening with rage.

"How dare you?" She pulled a speckled blue and white stone from her pocket and began to rub it. Morgor's words stopped her short, her breasts heaving in unconcealed rage.

"If you depart, we will remove the attunement so that we cannot be tracked while you carelessly reveal our destination by using the heavily-frequented portals in Dalaran city." Morgor also sounded hard, uncompromising, and for a moment Groll thought she might capitulate- or leave. He was wrong.

"What about you, elf? Do you want to ride a wyvern all day for the next two days? Perhaps you can talk some sense into them, it seems they are willing to do whatever you ask," her voice was harsh, contempt clanging through it like a hammer on an anvil.

"I have reasons of my own to prefer the speed of portal travel," Shantille responded. "However, as Groll has previously pointed out to me, discomfort is not life or death. I will take their advice, and accept the protection remaining with them provides, with gratitude."

Infuriated, Gormalla stood in the dusty square with her arms still crossed and her ample breasts still heaving with agitation. "You're nothing but a worthless bitch," she said, "sniffing at the feet of your master, groveling and pathetic. If he told you to find his bone, would you dig for that, too?"

Groll's fist contracted, but before he could act, Morgor stepped forward. Groll was shocked to see the (relatively) easy-going shaman throw the punch that Groll had intended. Morgor's fist connected with her cheek with a resounding 'crack' that echoed against the dirt walls of Gadgetzan. She stood staring at him in shocked surprise, before attempting to throw a punch of her own. She fell short as she was hit by a bolt of lightning that threw her bodily across the square.

"I've put up with your rudeness for years, woman. But your words are beyond anything acceptable in any society, even ours. Whatever your problem is, get over it before Camp Tuarjaro, or we will leave you behind," Morgor seemed to grow in his anger, expanding, rising, an illusion or a trick of the light. Either way, he seemed suddenly menacing, powerful, and predatory. "I don't like you, and I never have. You either get your shit together, or get the fuck out of here."

She stared at him in surprise, and Groll idly thought that he could probably have stuffed an entire loaf of bread in her mouth as it hung open in surprise, with room to spare. Then she gathered herself up, and stepped forward, smoke and steam wafting off of her from the blast of lightning magic she'd taken. "If you ever hit me again, I swear to every Deity that ever was, I will kill you," she said. Groll found himself sneering. Despite being in the wrong, she still tried to save face.

Morgor just shrugged, though. "You can try, you bitch. You can try." He picked up one of Shantille's packs and handed it to her. They all turned to head out of the city, uncaring of whether or not Gormalla followed.

It was the elf that first alerted them to the danger. As they stepped out of the gate of the walls of Gadgetzan, she stopped, abruptly, and Groll nearly knocked her off her feet. She laid one hand on his arm, drawing him up short, "Groll, I…"


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6

That was all she had time to say before they were struck by a flash of magic. Just as Morgor had sent Gormalla flying through the air, so they were now sent flying by a powerful blast of lightning magic. Groll heard the slight "ping" sound of a priest's protective magic. Once, twice, three, four times it repeated. He heard Morgor and Gormalla join him, seeing one out of each corner of his eye. He could sense Modaire and Shantille a couple of yards behind them. In front of them, fanned out around them, were 7, possibly 8 trolls.

One of them ambled forward a pace, and spoke, his voice carrying towards them on the still desert air that still reeked of singed skin, dust, sweat, and another scent that was strong, but which Groll could not identify.

"Were harder ta fin' ya dis time, tru dat. But we gun' git what we wants. Aint gonna let ya take 'er off from 'ere, mon. We dun wun' no truck wit da res' of yas. Give up da elf, an' we gun' be on our way wit 'er." He squatted then, thumping the butt of his staff on the ground, waiting for an answer. "We gots ya out nummered, easy. It be sue-side ta fights us all, mon."

"What do you want her for?" Groll asked.

"That be not yer bis'ness, mon. She be needed, so we be takin' 'er. Thas all ya be needin' ta know," came the response.

"How about 'no'," Groll said, and lifted his sword. He felt that strange sense of time dilation settle over him, and gathered himself up. With indescribable grace and speed, he flashed forward, the rage that flickered through his once demon-tainted blood giving him a burst of adrenaline-like hormones. He connected with the troll who had just been speaking, clearly a shaman from the filthy, malignant totems that stood bizarrely glowing about him. His shield struck the troll with lightning speed, his sword dipping like a graceful snake to slice into the mail-clad left arm of this first opponent.

To his surprise, the sword glanced off- clearly this troll was better equipped than the previous ones. Furthermore, he found himself set back slightly by the force of his own blow, almost as if he'd slammed into a tree instead of a living being. He grimaced a deep, satisfied grin. _A challenge_, he thought, _it's been months since I've faced a real challenge_.

His thought was interrupted by the sudden sense that Shantille was being harmed. He felt her approaching him, and also felt his rage build. These filthy creatures, trying to take her from him. The thought called up a terrible fury within him, and with all the considerable power of his powerful muscles, he leaped, dropping back to the ground with a force that sent a shockwave flashing out from him. The concussive power of his landing on the ground stunned the trolls closing in on the group for a moment. Long enough for him to change his focus to the troll who, but an instant ago (or was it minutes? hours?) was viciously attacking the delicate elf.

When he slammed the shield against this troll, with her twisted, deformed ear, he felt the usual satisfying grind of dragon bone against flesh and bone. His powerful blow staggered her, and he grimly assessed that she, for all her ability to attack a nearly defenseless blood elf priest, was a significantly weaker foe than was the leader. _And now_, he thought grimly, _she knows who the true danger to her is_.

His face close to hers, their tusks nearly touching, he said, "You should never have touched her. Because now I'm going to kill you for it." A bolt of lightning magic that struck her punctuated his statement, and the acrid scent of burning flesh and hair pinched his nose and tried to coil down into his lungs.

He was momentarily distracted from the troll in front of him by a sudden rush of fire that danced around him, an eerie, incandescent frenzy that licked at his hair, danced across his flesh, and sought his secret places. He was used to magical damage, and gritted his teeth through it, looking for the leader again through a foggy haze of pain.

But just as suddenly as the fire had flared up on him, it was gone, replaced by a soothing, cooling wash of energy. He knew immediately that it had been dispelled before it could complete its work. The work of killing him, slowly, painfully. Then he felt it. A Healing, washing over him on the heels of the agony inflicted by fire. It nearly distracted him from the poignantly slow battle. It touched him with tenderness, a soft, soothing, caressing… loving… touch. For a moment, despite the grimness of their situation, despite the danger, despite the fact that they were hopelessly outnumbered… he almost fancied that she had somehow managed to use the magic to speak tenderly, gracefully, to his heart. That she was reminding him, without words, of what he was fighting this fight for. What he was protecting. What he would live- or die- for.

Then the thought vanished, a wisp of it remaining to curl deliciously about in the back of his mind, dancing on the edge of oblivion. He had work to do. Death was at his right hand, walking with him, as he moved towards the leader again. He ignored the pathetic rogue behind him, focusing on the most dangerous of his foes. He stalked the troll, the world narrowing down to him, the troll, and Death. He felt Death hungering, lingering, and lusting. It would taste his blood, or the troll's blood, before the battle was over. Death was a familiar partner to him, and he welcomed it, embraced it, and invited it to drink deeply of troll's blood this day.

Just as he invited his sword to do the same. He called it Blood Drinker, and not idly so. For although he wielded it, it seemed almost alive, almost sentient. And like him, like Death striding invisibly yet almost tangibly beside him, the sword hungered. He watched in delirious and fierce joy as the sword sliced through the air, passing only inches above Gormalla's axe as it sliced into the bones of the troll's right shoulder. Leaping gleefully for the neck of the troll, Blood Drinker sang a sweet and delicate song in the dusty, pungent air.

With a feeling of mounting rage and frustration, Groll saw the troll rear back, the sword nicking his neck and splashing only the tiniest arc of blood, where it sprayed and mingled with dust. Undeterred, Groll swung the sword again, ignoring the fire that now leapt to life on the troll's skin, Morgor's work, no doubt.

Even as his sword bit into flesh and mail, and searched like a desperate and starving man for bone, Groll saw ice slamming into the ground around them. Sharp shards erupted, passing harmlessly through him, as if sensing his attunement to their creator. But the same shards bit deeply into the troll in front of him, and those surrounding them.

As the mage's magic ice rained down on them from above, vanishing without a trace of lingering liquid, Groll was once more consumed in fire. And worse than that, he felt the troll land several punishing, agonizing blows with the mace he held. One struck Groll in the head, and despite the heavy helm he wore, he felt it stagger him, and dots swam before his eyes, lost minnows in a sea of darkness. He began to tumble forward, the call of darkness stronger than he could bear.

In that instant, he felt his heart sink. Death had finally chosen him over the other. He was melting into its embrace, and he felt a tremendous sense of loss, of finality. _So this is what it is to die_, he thought. Regret, and more regret. He had failed. He had failed his friends, he had failed his elf. He would die today, he would die this way. He would die with regret lingering as his last thought. He would die knowing he had delivered his elf up to the horrific embrace of whatever terror the trolls had in store for her. Death had betrayed him this time. Fury mingled with the regret as he sank into the dark embrace of Death, the cruelest and most capricious lover of them all.

Then he was called back from the precipice of the abyss. It was a siren's call; a soft, sweet singing that ran through his veins and swept away the darkness. The veil parted, and the world lurched brutally and instantly back into focus. He realized with a moment's disorientation that the eternity he'd just spent dying was only an instant, less than a fraction of that, even. He had hovered on the brink of death, and she had called him back. Restored him. Renewed him, just before the final fatal plunge into oblivion. Granted him the privilege of trying again.

This time, he would not fail her. He wouldn't fail any of them. His ears rang, and he felt the fire still burning across him. He turned back to the troll, whose face registered surprise. The troll realized his prey had not fallen, and he snarled, a drop of saliva oozing down from one of his oversized tusks, slowly stretching before it dripped in a slow and stately course to the ground.

Something in Groll had subtly altered, he felt it, he knew it. He felt a greater clarity, a deeper power flow through him. He had stood at the brink of death, and his elf had brought him back before he could be consumed by it. He was altered, and as Blood Drinker swung around this time, it connected with the mail of the troll's tunic where Gormalla's powerful axes had already damaged it to near uselessness. He landed the blow fully, slicing through links with a grinding scream that made him laugh, a maniacal, surreal sound that almost masked the sickening crunch of bones.

He realized suddenly that still 3 other trolls remained, and that the one before him, although he had taken numerous punishing blows, was nowhere near death. His heart sank again, and he realized that Death would soon have another, more likely, chance at him. The Power reserves of his companions were all but gone. Gormalla's axes had slowed, her eyes glazed with pain as she was pelted by the burning magic of the troll shaman. In the way that veterans have, he knew that they would die this day. He vowed that, whatever he had to do, he would be the last to go. And he would take every troll with him that he could. That his dying breath would mingle with their dying breaths.

Just as the realization sank into him, he saw a flash of green out of the corner of his eye. Surprised, he turned, his attention diverted for an instant from the troll in front of him. When he understood what he had seen, his heart lifted, racing with an intense thrill. The words of his elf echoed in his head, "True Power, beyond what most will ever wield, is in service." Here, in their darkest hour of need, when all was lost, swarmed a testament to her words.

Goblins. They were everywhere. They poured out of Gadgetzan in a furious, buzzing swarm. A green sea of bodies rolled and tumbled and rushed and gushed from the gate. A shout went up from them as they raced towards the group, short little legs carrying them like locusts across the desert floor. Before he could react, before the troll could react, they were upon them. Like water around a stone, they flowed around the group, swarming the remaining trolls.

As the troll in front of him was swallowed up in an ocean of infuriated goblins, Groll saw the troll's eyes flicker with terror. It was long minutes before the screaming stopped. Blood seeped out of the pile of green, spreading slowly across the ground before the eager sands drank deeply of the crimson gift.

When at last the goblins parted to step away, Groll was nearly sick himself. Veteran of numerous wars, he still found the mass of bone, shredded skin, and entrails to be revolting. It shimmered slightly in the desert air, releasing the heat that had once animated it. He looked away, and saw that none of the other remaining trolls had escaped similar treatment.

Sword drooping, he turned and looked back at Shantille and Modaire. Shantille now stood in the same sea of goblins, her hand reaching out to gently Heal two of them. They crowded around her, all trying to talk at once:

"I'm sorry we were so late!"

"Are you okay?"

"We didn't know you was fighting til almost too late!"

He watched as she hugged them each in turn, sometimes several at a time, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you, dear friend," she repeated over and over. "Thank you, thank you for helping us, thank you for saving me."

Groll and the others sat down on the dusty, blood-spattered ground, watching the odd spectacle and slowly eating magic, restorative food.

While the goblins slowly dispersed, Groll and Morgor stood and began searching the bodies. Groll searched through the bits of bone and bloody flesh that was all that remained of the leader, when his eye caught a flash of gold. He distastefully tugged on the chain, bringing drops of blood and gobbets of flesh with it. Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out the flask of drinking water and doused the chain with it. Bits of flesh dropped away, the water turning first pink, then clear. The water revealed that one clump that he'd thought was flesh was actually a small amulet.

"Here," he called out, excitement carried on his voice to the others. They converged on him with various levels of curiosity on their faces. He held the amulet in his palm and looked at it more closely. "Quetz'lun," he said, revealing the name of the relief that stood on the surface of the amulet.

The hot air of the desert seemed to cool several degrees, and grow darker. They were all chilled by the name of the birdlike goddess- the Eater of Souls. As one, they all stared at Shantille. She shook her head, her brow creased, clearly confused. "I know of her, but nothing else. I have never encountered her; indeed, I spent my time in the western section of North Rend, and have never made it that far east. I've not set even one foot in Zul Drak."

Modaire spoke softly, "Her influence has spread amongst the trolls, though. It's little doubt that she has agents everywhere, even here in the old country. But I think we may be getting ahead of ourselves here. I agree that we should pursue the possibilities that this amulet represent. However, I would urge everyone to keep an open mind. It could be a trap, it could be misdirection, or it could be unrelated and simply his religious affiliation."

Groll nodded, and saw Morgor nodding as well out of the corner of his eye. It was sound advice. It was enough of a clue for them to pursue it, but it was also important that they recognize the fact that it could be coincidence or an attempt to distract them from the facts. Groll pocketed the amulet, before saying, "I agree with you. I will point out, though, that he was quite unnaturally powerful. It's clear that some form of magic enhanced him. I would venture to say with some degree of confidence that he was certain he would not be defeated. He nearly wasn't. We would be dead, and Shantille taken, were it not for the timely intervention of her goblin friends."

They stood quietly for a moment, steeped in thought and the scents of battle. Finally, Groll led them away from the battle and back into the inn. He bought a room again, this time only for the purpose of cleaning up. Sitting in the common room, they took turns using the room, until all were clean again.

In the meantime, they discussed their alternatives at length, Gormalla now much subdued. In fact, it was she who reminded them, when they discussed all using their hearth stones to return them to their residences at The Filthy Animal Inn in Dalaran, that there was a hidden danger in that, as well. The mages of Dalaran prided themselves on being fully neutral. If the group were to head there and were to be assaulted while there, the mages would kill both them, and their attackers, with equal impunity. It was clear that she no longer felt it was a case of "simple slavers."

After some time, they decided to stick to part of their original plan. They would still travel to Orgrimmar. But from there, they would take the Zeppelin to Undercity. From Undercity, they would once more travel by Zeppelin, off to Vengeance Landing in the Howling Fjord. From there, they would travel north into the scourge-infested lands of Zul Drak.

Once the plan was fully decided upon, they left Gadgetzan. Once at the Flight Master, just outside the gates, they all rented a wyvern, and winged north, back to Camp Tuarjaro, where they would spend the night before flying out again to Orgrimmar.

During the long flight, Groll, though he spent some attention on guiding the wyvern, mostly thought hard and long about the situation in which he found himself. He replayed the whole experience in his mind, seeking for clues. Was there something he was missing? Something in the conversation that first night in the alley, perhaps? Was there something in her popularity that revealed the intentions of her pursuers? Was there more to her than met the eye, some latent talent or ability that even she didn't recognize? Perhaps her heritage was not what she had been told- but wouldn't Modaire know if that were the case?

His mind churned relentlessly for a while, until it returned, like a squirrel to a buried nut, to worry at the thing that still nagged him the most deeply. How was it possible for her to care for him? Slowly, the realization dawned on him that she knew little of him. Perhaps her excuse was ignorance. Ignorance of the faceless tide of lives he had taken. Ignorance of the terrible things he had done. Ignorance of the fact that a part of him still lusted, longed, cried out for, demon blood. Decades, more than a century, in fact, had passed, yet still he hungered. He felt his belly tighten, his mouth salivate, and his throat begin to close with the force of his need for the addictive blood that had once pumped through his veins, simply at the acknowledgement of it.

He fought the rising tide of his addiction for a time, until, unbidden, cool green eyes floated up to the top of his awareness. Pale white breasts, a flat belly, and the vision of bright red lips kissing his penis drew his mind away from his addiction like a drowning man who has just found a log, floating innocently past an instant before he took his final breath.

He felt his penis leap into throbbing, virile life in his pants, yelping in surprised pain as it became fully erect before he could adjust it, pinching painfully in its bent position. He apologized to the flickering ears of the uneasy wyvern, while he adjusted himself to relieve the pain. But the pain was, in its own way, a blessing. It brought him to full awareness, yanking him forcefully out of his obsessive thinking.

At the same time, it made him aware that he ached with a longing he had never felt before. He knew the taste, the flavor, the color, and the depth of addiction. This was different. This was something that he knew he would be judged by society for. It was something that would be seen as being as bad, if not worse than his addiction. Yet somehow, he couldn't feel guilt or shame about the way he ached with longing. It seemed beautiful, deep, comforting. It warmed his soul, seeping into secret places inside of him and healing them- places he hadn't realized were hurting. She wasn't an orc, and both his race and hers forbade his longing for her.

Regardless of that, he felt that there was something perfect, something even wholesome and natural and proper about the way he felt about her. He shook his head, then, and abruptly cut off the fanciful line of thinking. Such things were for the lucky, the Deity-blessed, and the good people of the world. Of which he was none. It was his self-loathing that made him feel as if even she, Shantille, were tainted. Tainted, perhaps, by his very touch, by accepting his issue inside of her.

As if in protest to the thought, his erection died, his penis shrinking, drawing back into itself, chastised by his cruel thought. He sighed, and his thoughts began to jumble, racing into each other and tripping over one another like goblins scrambling after a spilled coin purse.

When the wyvern he rode dove to the ground, landing a bit abruptly with a dust-raising back wing, he dismounted with a groan. Somewhat stiff, he waited while first Gormalla, then Shantille, then the other two men landed. Groll fought to keep his emotions and desires under control as he looked at Shantille. Suddenly, a single thought rose clearly to the front and center of the tangle. He wanted to please her. He wanted to take her into the inn and make her feel good, better than anyone had ever made her feel, if it took all night.

With that thought in mind, he found it difficult to get through the evening. He, Morgor, Modaire, and Gormalla spoke at length about past adventures, memories, and events. Shantille was always there, bringing them something to drink, or something to eat, or clearing away empty plates or mugs. Groll focused on not staring avidly at her, and waited for the seemingly interminable evening to end.

When it did finally end, and they were prepared to retire, Groll ran into a most unexpected hitch. Gormalla very reasonably suggested that she should sleep on the guard pallet in Shantille's room that night. It seemed far more logical, them both being women, she pointed out.

It was Modaire, surprisingly, who pointed out the fundamental, and possibly life-threatening flaw in her logic. Of the five of them, only three had trinkets capable of breaking the freezing magic of the portaling mage, if he should return. So, gratefully, Groll found himself re-relegated to guard duty. Fighting to appear impassive about it, he closed the door and locked it behind himself. Shantille stood in the center of the room, and looked at him with a lust on her soft, delicate face that nearly mirrored his own.

Groll covered the distance between them in two wide, powerful strides, and gathered her up into an eager, driven embrace. He slid one dusky green hand into her hair, pulling her mouth to his. His other arm wrapped around her with intense, exaggerated care as he pulled her against his chest, crushing her breasts against his armor.

With eager abandon, driven by desire, they began to undress each other, awkward and giggling in their haste to feel hide against skin. For the moment, Groll's confusion was gone. In her presence, thoughts and fears seemed to flee, there being room only for his longing to be buried inside her, as deeply and as thoroughly as he could get.

Soon, they were naked again, standing against each other, suddenly unsure and quiet. Apparently having forgiven him his earlier thoughts, his penis once more stood arrogantly erect, pressing into the soft skin of her slender belly. He picked her up and laid her on the pallet that Byula had once more thoughtfully had delivered to their room. Kneeling a couple of feet away from her between her legs, he pressed them apart. Meeting her eyes, he leaned forward onto his elbows, and lifted her butt with his hands, until she was just far enough off of the ground for him to bury his face into the soft pink treasure between her legs.

He slipped his tongue up and down the folds of thin, sensitive skin there. A flicker of desire ran through him, as he tasted her mild, slightly thick, clear juices. He teased her clit first, and then slipped inside of her again. A very short warm-up was all he intended, and long before she began to build to a climax, he withdrew from her.

He stood up, pulling her up with him, and sat down on the bed. He turned her around, facing away from him now, and picked her up. He positioned her on his erect penis, and let her simply slide down on it. He lifted her a few times, until he was well lubricated, a trickle of her wetness sliding down a crease in his scrotum. Then, he slid her forward and off of him, directing her to support her weight on his legs. She leaned forward, leaning on her arms, her hands on his knees.

Then, wanting to know every part of her, he pressed the tip of his penis against the pink-brown star of her anus. He heard her sharp intake of breath, and she pulled forward away from him. He raised his eyebrows, surprised. Blood elves were notorious for their sexual openness, and her pulling away was the last thing he had expected.

"I… I've never…I haven't done that before," her voice carried back to him lightly, quietly, as she stammered her confession.

He pulled her back against him, "I had no idea, I'm sorry. We don't have to do that." He felt a tendril of disappointment run through him. A part of him wanted to know every part of her, body and mind. A part of him wanted to leave his mark. A part of him wanted to please her that way. But he would never force her to this.

"You like it?" it was half statement, half question.

"Yes," he admitted, "but I think you would, as well. It can easily be painless and pleasurable for you, too."

She sighed and seemed to ponder for a moment. "Okay, I trust you," was all she said, and then she leaned forward.

Slowly, gently, he began to slide the head of his penis into her. When he felt her muscles convulse, he stopped, leaning carefully forward to stimulate her clitoris with a finger. When the pulsing stopped, he slipped a bit deeper into her. It took several minutes, until he felt himself slide freely, without objection, inside her. He felt a thrill of excitement, of triumph. He was the first. He was about to stake a claim no other man had ever taken. He controlled the urge to thrust wildly into her, and pulled her up to rest against his chest. Then he lay backwards, adjusting a pillow behind his head.

He pulled her back so that she lay face up, her back to him, and ran his hand back down to her clitoris. Her legs draped, open, over and to the outside of his. He spread his own slightly, to open her up more. Then slowly, carefully, he began to rub the soft wetness of her folds, stopping often to tease her clitoris, as he began to shift his hips so that he slid in and out of her.

He was pleased to feel her relax against him, clearly having been even more afraid than she'd indicated that the experience would be painful. As she relaxed, she began to respond to his questing fingers, her hips jittering slightly as he increased the tempo of his finger on her. The movements of her hips, combined with his own slow thrusting, drove him repeatedly past the slightly soft mounds of her rump and into her in an increasing rhythm. He felt the alternating softness with the gripping of her anus around him, and felt himself reaching rapidly for an orgasm.

He let go of the comforter, unaware he'd been gripping it, and reached up to knead her breast, trying to distract himself from his mounting release. As he plunged into her again and again, the powerful muscles of his belly and his thighs rocking his pelvis, he tried to make sure that the bed didn't squeak and betray them, ever alert to the possible danger.

He let himself go faster, rocking his hips rhythmically now, thrusting again and again. When she found her release- before him, as he had intended- he let himself follow, his hands leaving their respective delights and gripping her hips. He thrust her down against him, burying himself as deeply in her as he could. He felt the tightness in his testicles build, then felt himself emptying them into her. He let his growl rise, a purring rumble that spoke as clearly as words of his deep pleasure.

They lay like that for a few minutes, their panting slowly calming to normal breathing as Groll ran his hands over her beautiful body. He felt a sense of closeness to her, which flowed through him in a gentle seep. He sighed and smiled, that orc grimace of pleasure. He slipped out of her; her muscles there pushing him gently, but definitely, out. His penis, soft and satiated now, rolled back to its usual position.

After a while, he gently helped her up, and they took a bath in what seemed most likely to be the same tub they'd used the last time. As she sat sideways in his lap, while they washed each other, he asked her, "How is it that you've never done that before? I thought blood elves sort of did a little of everything."

She looked at him and raised one tufted eyebrow. "And I thought all orcs fucked 'em and forgot 'em."

"Touché," he said, with a chuckle.

Her face smoothed, and she said, "I just never had an interest in it. I have had very few sexual encounters, most of them in my youth when my hormones were changing. I've been celibate for 15 years now, until a certain orc took advantage of me in a pool of water here in the barrens." She grinned, taking the potential bite out of the comment.

He stared at her, astounded. "15 years? Are you serious?" When she nodded in response, "Why?" His voice clearly reflected his shock at the very idea of 15 years without sex.

"I have my 170th birthday in a few months, Groll. 15 years is a relatively small expanse of time, all things considered." She pondered the question for a few moments. "I guess I just really have little to no interest in sex."

The absurdity of the comment tickled him. He started to laugh, splashing water with every bark of laughter as his chest contracted with the force of his hilarity. "You're lustier than an orc, woman. Little to no interest in sex, my ass." He laughed again, until her soft voice penetrated his consciousness.

"It's not the sex, Groll, it's you."

He sobered and looked at her studiously for a moment. He finally had the chance to ask. He'd thought they'd be on the road by now, that he wouldn't have this chance for weeks, but fate- or a troll- had delivered him the perfect opportunity.

"Are you trying to say that you love me?" He waited for her answer, not daring to breathe. He wasn't sure what he wanted to hear. He realized he was deeply conflicted, both wanting, and fearing, a 'yes' answer.

"Yes, Groll, I do," she said simply.

A fierce joy boiled up in him. He pulled her speechlessly against him, feeling her soft skin brushing his dark hide under the water. Triumph, fiercer, more powerful, more overwhelming than before rose up in him, dragging his penis with it. He wanted her again desperately in that moment, as he realized that he had indeed claimed every part of her. Not only of her body, but he had her mind, and her heart, too.

He took her again there in the tub, this time slipping into her soft pink folds, and leaving his mark at the entrance to her uterus yet again. He was alternately tender and desperate, kissing her, exploring her, delighting in every part of her. His elf, soft and naked and willing and in love with him.

It was late night before they slept, their fingers and toes wrinkled from too long in the bathwater. It wasn't until he was drifting to sleep that Groll realized that he loved her, too. On the tail of that realization was the fact that he hadn't told her so. Not in words, anyway. And women needed words, didn't they?

Sleep closed over his vow to tell her, bringing nightmares with it.

The next morning, though, Groll forgot his vow. He awakened abruptly to the sound of Morgor's knock at the door, torn from a dream he couldn't quite remember fully, but where he was once more helpless as Shantille was ripped from him, whisked off by ravenous trolls, who roasted and ate her while he watched in helpless horror.

As they prepared to leave, and through breakfast, he was irascible, surly, and uncommunicative. After only a few tries, the group left him alone. Only Shantille spoke to him at all, her voice soft and unassuming as she asked was he hungry, would he like more drink? Soon they were on their way to Orgrimmar, the sun peeking over the horizon some time after they had left.

It was late afternoon by the time they arrived, stopping only to hire fresh flyers for the final leg of the trip. They got tables at the inn, though this time they wouldn't be staying. Groll, still unnerved and angered by the nightmares, informed the party bluntly that he was going to check and see if Doko were in town, and get some different flasks from him. When Shantille stood to come with him, he shook his head at her. "Stay here. Where I'm going is no place for a woman, even in daylight."

She nodded, but didn't sit. "Very well. I have needs of my own to see to," she said, and he remembered the conversation, which seemed a lifetime ago, about feminine necessities.

"Gormalla," he said, "go with her."

"No." Gormalla hadn't sat down. "I have business of my own to tend to. She'll have to wait until I'm finished."

Morgor rose from the bench, graceful despite his mass. "I'm happy to escort her," he said. She blushed but nodded.

Modaire, on the other hand, said with a resigned expression that he would "stay here and have a tea and a tiddle of crumpet," and watch their belongings.

Groll left the inn, and headed once more the darkest area of town. He was pleased to find that Doko was indeed there, and picked up some magic flasks that he knew would be useful to a priest. Leaving, he headed towards the target dummies. After some 45 minutes or more of work, he was sweating profusely. The physical activity, the reminder that he was a powerful man, with powerful muscles, and the endorphins released by exercise, had finally chased the cobwebs of nightmares from his mind. In the light of day, it seemed silly to have let them get to him.

Now in an almost pleasant, even expansive mood, he returned to the inn. As he approached, he found Modaire, Morgor, and Shantille sitting in the sunshine, on a large blanket in the sand between the inn and the bank. It appeared that she was sewing something, while Morgor and Modaire chatted easily. Gormalla was nowhere in sight, a fact that brought Groll a sense of relief.

As he approached, Morgor got up, reassuring Shantille that all was well, and he would be nearby, when she looked at him questioningly. Groll was surprised to see Morgor's face change entirely as he stumped towards him. To most, he doubted that Morgor looked much different, but Groll saw signs of deep concern, mixed with furious anger on the other man's face and in his posture.

Morgor drew him up at the side of the street, near the inn. "You fool. You stupid, stupid fool," the accusation snapped from Morgor's mouth like a snake striking at its prey.

"What?" Groll felt pole axed. Never, in all the many, many years he'd known him, had he ever heard Morgor speak to him that way? "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Look at her, Groll, look closely at her," and he pointed at Shantille. Obediently, Groll looked. He saw her smile at Modaire, the smile lighting up her face. He saw red lips, which he could nearly taste, even as he looked at them….

"Not like that, man. You're looking as a lover looks," Morgor snapped. "Look at her like a warrior. Look at her like a trained and skilled veteran, Groll."

Groll looked again. This time, he saw a line of worry that flickered across her brow as she looked down again at her sewing. He saw her hand tremble, so slightly. Her posture was off. Just slightly. He hadn't noticed it before, but now it looked glaringly wrong somehow. He realized that, for some reason, she was distressed again—and trying very hard to hide it.

But before he could ask, Gormalla was back. Walking up the street, brash, swaggering, arrogant, she shouted at them, "Let's get going already!"

Groll looked at Morgor with a look that promised they would talk again later, and the two went to gather their packs, knowing that they would get no more opportunities to speak privately at the present time. Groll noticed that now Shantille had her own riding mount back, a fastidiously groomed hawkstrider. She seemed still agitated, yet to his lover's eyes, she was hiding it extremely well. Had Morgor not alerted him to look closer, he would never have guessed at all.

Modaire and Morgor began to chat lightly, and Groll hung back with them, watching Shantille ride. To his surprise, she and Gormalla seemed to actually be having a reasonable conversation. He ignored the conversation between Modaire and Morgor, straining his keen ears to hear the conversation ahead. It was to no avail, and he wondered what two such different women could possibly be speaking of.

As they rode towards the tower, Gormalla suddenly turned on her worg, "Come on, boys, the Zeppelin is arriving, get a move on before you miss it," and with a deep laugh, she kicked her worg out of his smooth, comfortable lope, and into a full-speed gallop. The rest of them followed suit, reaching the Zeppelin moments after it docked.

When they got on board the Zeppelin, Gormalla went below decks, as she usually did, and Modaire and Morgor began to argue good-naturedly about magic matters. That gave Groll a moment to approach Shantille as she stood- too close for his comfort- looking over the edge of the Zeppelin, watching first landscape, then water speed past.

"Did you get the feminine items you needed?" he asked.

She looked up at him, and for a moment she looked almost- but not quite- obviously upset. The warrior in him, activated by Morgor's words earlier, watched her with hawk like interest. "No," she said, "it was no longer available." A shock of surprise ran through him- it was a lie, the movement of her eyes, the increase in the pulse at the base of her throat betrayed it.

"Well, really, I should say, it's no longer of any use to me," she said. He relaxed, and the warrior part settled down. This much was true, and she had relayed it on her own, so it seemed that she hadn't meant to deceive, that her wording was simply inaccurate and her subconscious was reacting to that.

"Ah, well, I hope you got some for next time," he said.

She shook her head. "I am certain that I will have many opportunities to get more before I need any such thing again, I suspect." The warrior remained quiet, dormant. It was true. They stood there in the breeze, chatting amicably, until the rest of the party joined them. Not long after that, they had arrived at the dock outside of Undercity, and were ready to disembark.


	7. Chapter 7

Part 7

Morgor was standing against the railing alone when Groll approached him. The Zeppelin named Cloudkisser, bound for Vengeance Landing, skimmed far above the water, though the sparkling path of the sun seemed to race along with them. Fresh sea air breezed past them, smelling of salt, coldness, and brine. The wind was chill, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the achingly brilliant sun.

"What could bring you to say such a thing to me, old friend?" Groll leaned against a railing pylon and addressed the man who was undoubtedly the closest friend he'd ever had.

Morgor straightened up and scowled. "She's pregnant, Groll."

Groll felt the Cloudkisser slow nearly to a halt beneath him as his world was destroyed in three simple words. Everything slowed down, the stiff breeze even seemed to still, gasping for air along with him. Then suddenly the world contracted again, and the Zeppelin was back on its course, the breeze snapping his braids once more.

"How can that happen? Don't women have ways to prevent that? I thought all women…" he trailed off into silence as Morgor shook his head.

"They can prevent it if they plan on having sex. They can stop their egg from taking root if they act within the first two days after sex without precautions. They can choose to take an abortive after that.

"But she won't do that, she can't. I eavesdropped on her and the alchemist. Those few priests who are on the higher path can take contraception until the child takes root. After that, they are forbidden to take an abortive under any circumstance. Even, apparently, circumstances such as these," Morgor told him grimly. "I don't know what happened between you, Groll. And I hesitate to think this of you, because you have been a friend longer than I have memory of. But somehow, I doubt she consented to being impregnated."

Morgor's eyes met his, and Groll felt a terrible misery settle into him. "It was… she looked at me with so much desire," he murmured, hearing how hollow it sounded.

"She's an elf, man. For an elf, that's the beginning of courtship. She's not an orc- you can't jump every elf that looks at your pecks, Groll," Morgor's voice was angry, cutting, decisive. "She didn't try to stop you at all?"

Groll swallowed hard. "She did, I just…. I wasn't thinking."

Morgor shook his head. "I don't know you, man. I don't know you at all. If you were anyone else who did that to any woman, I'd kill you where you stand. I dishonor us both by not doing it to you now." His face showed disbelief. He turned and began to walk away. Then he stopped and looked back, "And congratulations, the alchemist said it's a boy." He whirled and headed for the back of the Zeppelin, where the others were lounging in companionable, sleepy silence.

Her words from the night before rang through his head; 'I've been celibate for 15 years now, until a certain orc took advantage of me in a pool of water.' She had wanted him, he realized, she just hadn't been ready. He hadn't misread the cues, not really. She wanted him, and subsequent interactions between them had gone on to prove it. But she hadn't been prepared. She didn't expect to be having sex, and he hadn't courted her. He'd just taken her, ignoring her feeble resistance. It struck him in that moment that it was most likely that her 'feeble' resistance had been the best she could manage, in her starved condition.

_Deities_, he thought viciously to himself, _what have I done?_

He had ruined her life, ruined his own life, and endangered his friends by getting them involved, too. And now his son's life was in danger as well.

His son. He looked out across the water. _A son_, he thought, _I'm going to have a son_. His mind strayed back for a moment to his relationship to the father he'd lost long years ago, having outlived him by generations thanks to the taint of demon blood that ran through him. A father. A son. He realized suddenly, with sharp clarity, that he'd had a good father. What kind of father would he be? And what would happen to his half-breed son?

He walked slowly towards the back of the Zeppelin, his mind churning. He stopped when he could see her, sitting in the bright sun with a blanket over her lap. He stared at her, his red eyes sweeping her as she talked with Modaire and Morgor. Somehow, she looked different to him, though nothing had really changed—and everything had. She was infinitely more beautiful, yet strange, foreign, exotic.

Inside her belly, his son was just beginning life.

As Groll watched, Modaire got up and went below decks, presumably to talk with Gormalla. Groll moved to step forward when he saw Morgor sit up and lean towards Shantille. Their postures both immediately changed, and Groll felt tension run through his body. As he watched, Morgor spoke, and Shantille reacted immediately. Sitting up, she reached out to Morgor and laid her hand on his arm.

Her head shook adamantly, and Morgor pulled back, as if rejecting what she was saying. Whatever it was, Groll could see earnestness in every line of her body, and he realized that he knew what she had been asked. Morgor had asked if she'd been raped, Groll knew it in the center of his being. And at last his guilt dissolved, draining away. She denied it; she didn't feel she had been raped. She was not in love with a rapist, and although he knew himself to be evil still, knowing she would not love a rapist eased some of the turmoil inside him.

Groll clomped forward, letting his armor clang uncharacteristically firmly against the wooden deck, indirectly announcing his arrival. As he approached, Morgor stood up, then Shantille. Groll stood looking at Morgor for a moment.

Morgor nodded, "She explained. I still think you're a bloody fool, though." For orcs, it was an apology- better than Groll deserved. Then Morgor reached out to him in a handshake. Groll choked up slightly as he realized- it was the left hand.

Deeply moved, he grasped his sworn-brother's forearm with his own left hand, "Live and die well, brother."

Obviously, Morgor was also deeply moved to be returned to the friendship they'd shared for so long, briefly sundered by the events of the last few days. "Long live my brother," he said. For a moment, they held the pose, each of them relishing the knowledge that their friendship was, and would remain, intact.

Then Groll turned to Shantille, moving closer to her. His red eyes stared directly into hers, but he spoke to Morgor, "Marry us, Mo," he said, using the short form of his closest friend's name. "Right here, right now."

He felt Morgor's eyes turn to Shantille, and both men waited for her response. Her eyes searched his for a moment, seeming to seek to look into his very soul. Finally, he could breathe again when she nodded.

And that was it; they were married there, in the cold, brilliant sunshine, on the deck of the Cloudkisser as it zinged across the water. However unofficial it might be without paperwork or witnesses, it was all that Groll needed. His wife, his son, and the support of his best friend- it was all he needed. He would make it work out, he would find a way, whatever it took, whatever sacrifices had to be made.

It was a secret marriage, known only to the three of them. It didn't matter to Groll, though. He couldn't tell the world. He couldn't shout it from the rooftops. But his wife knew. His best friend knew. His son would have a father. Whatever the future held for them all, he'd make things as right for all of them as he could. There were obscure places where a man and a woman could live in peace and raise a child.

Continuing to avoid the skysailors, Groll and Shantille walked quietly along the deck of the ship. "I didn't expect that," Shantille murmured, softly, for his ears only.

"I know, I'm sorry I sprang it on you. Mo's one of my oldest and dearest friends, though, he won't say anything. As a shaman, he has the legal credentials to marry us."

"Oh, I know that, Groll. I'm not concerned about that at all. I'm just amazed. And I'm very happy, but I don't know what we're going to do." She stopped at the banister and looked out towards the rapidly approaching land.

"We'll work it out, Shantille, I don't know how, I don't know where, but we'll do it," he said, fiercely, adamantly. He lowered his voice, noticing one of the goblins glance their way. "This isn't the first time that a forbidden marriage has occurred, and others have worked it out. We will, too." She smiled at him and nodded.

Then, her face sobering, she said, "There's something else you need to—"

"Groll!" Morgor's shout cut across their conversation, ending it with abruptly, unceremoniously. "We're docking shortly," Morgor, Gormalla, and Modaire drew closer to them, Morgor lowering his voice to a more conversational level as they did so. "Do you want to stay in Vengeance Landing, or move on immediately from there?"

Groll considered for a time, wanting desperately to stay, to make love to his wife in the inn before they left for the wild and untamed Northern lands. He wanted time to experience the subtle alteration in their status before they had to return to the very cold, bitter reality of the seriousness of their situation. He wanted to feel his arms around her, feel her around him.

He closed his eyes, squeezing the thoughts away. No. They had to end this. There would be no getting on with life until this issue was resolved. And resolve it, he would. Whoever or whatever was behind this, it was time for it to be exposed and his wife freed. He lifted his massive shoulders and flexed them, twisting his head to stretch his neck. It was an unconscious gesture he used when he was gearing up for a fight.

Then he said, "We'll stay a night. I think it's important to inform the local authorities. If the trolls are getting so bold they'll even venture to the old, highly populated lands of Azeroth, that's cause for concern here, as well." Yes, he would inform them before they left to settle this matter. But the first order of business was to see to it that his wife and son were safe.

When they landed at Vengeance Landing, Groll called Morgor to go with him, and they went to speak with High Executor Anselm. As they walked together, Groll said to Morgor, "I think it's best that Shantille stay here. She'll be safest here, surrounded by soldiers and walls."

Morgor pondered for a moment, "I don't think she'll agree to that, Groll. She's got a stake in this thing, too."

Groll grunted in near-laughter, then, "No, Mo, I know she won't agree to it. So I'm not going to tell her that she's staying."

"I don't think this is a good idea, Groll, if nothing else, because—" Groll was shaking his head.

"It has to be done, Mo. She's got to stay here, and I'm not going to argue with her about it. She doesn't need the added stress in her condition." Groll ignored it as Morgor's eyebrows rose, and he shook his head.

"It's your funeral, man," Mo said cryptically.

Groll scowled. "She's my wife, Mo, and I know what's best for her."

"I think you're not telling her because you're scared. Has she refused to do anything you asked of her in a well-reasoned way?" Morgor frowned as they approached the High Executor, his voice falling slightly, "If you're so sure this is the right thing, you shouldn't be afraid of the confrontation of asking her to stay."

"I'm not asking her to stay, Mo. She's staying." Groll's voice carried a stern finality that Morgor recognized far too well.

"Well, as I say, it's your funeral, man."

Their conversation ended abruptly as they reached Anselm. Groll filled in the circumstances for him rapidly, answering what questions he could and deflecting the remainder of the conversation onto Morgor. As Morgor and the High Executor talked, Groll left to get Shantille. He asked Morgor in an aside to inform the others of his decision, and Morgor nodded, his face stoic.

Groll took Shantille inside with him, asking Modaire and Gormalla to find some provisions. When they entered the cold, dank stone inn, he got a single room, giving the usual excuse that he would be body guarding her, and that the others would be in soon to get their own rooms. They went up the wooden stairs to the room, their feet echoing hollowly on the old boards.

Pulling her to him the moment they crossed the threshold of the cold stone room and shut the door, Groll kissed her, and then leaned his face against her hair, tangling one tusk in it. "You smell so good, so very good." He lifted his head to look at her. "I want you to remember something, kitten." Red eyes, green eyes, staring into one another. "I love you so much."

She smiled at him, a tremulous, tender smile. "I know you do, Groll. But hearing you say it makes it feel so much more real."

He pressed her head against his chest gently. How he wanted to throw her on the bed and be inside her in that moment! He agonized, not wanting to go, but determined to protect her, even if it meant he wouldn't get to be inside her again for weeks, possibly longer. But it was his duty as father and husband to protect. And this, he felt, was the best way to do it.

He reached over and opened one of her packs. He started taking things out of it, knowing full well that it was the wrong pack. "Where's that purple dress, kitten?"

She laughed and pointed at another of her packs. "In that one, orc, and be careful when you're pawing through my stuff!"

He found it and laid it out, "I'd love to see you in this later tonight." He grinned wickedly at her. It was true, he would love to… but he wouldn't get to, of course.

"That was supposed to be a surprise," she said.

He grinned at her, "I saw it when you were packing up to leave Orgrimmar. It was a nice surprise then, it'll be even nicer when it's on you."

She nodded, saying only, "I think that can be arranged."

Groll left the room then, "I'm going to see if we have all the provisions we need."

As he left, clomping down the cold flagstones, then down the hollow-sounding wooden stairs, the sounds felt final to him. A sense of impending doom swept him for a moment, and he shook his head. Trying to ease the feeling, he comforted himself with the belief that it was simply his over-active imagination. Emerging into the cold light of the Howling Fjord, he felt the odd sensation fall away. _Yes_, he thought, _my imagination is overactive_.

He joined his companions, preparing to mount up. Anselm hailed him, stopping them before they could head out. "I done spoke to Overlord Garrosh, an' he told me to send a garrison with you. I've one formin' up now to go wit' you." When Groll made as if to protest, the man continued, his jaw drooping alarmingly, and rather sloppily, in his dead face, "It's not a request or an offer, Hellhammer, it's an order." The use of Groll's last name reminded him that he was a soldier of the Horde, bound by duty to obey the orders of the commander of the Horde in Northrend.

Sighing as Anselm rode away again, Groll told the others, "Let's hope they form up quickly. We need to get on our way as fast as possible."

Modaire, his face lined with concern, asked Groll, "Do you really think that trying to fool her is a good id—"

His words were cut off by the slamming of the front door of the inn as it banged open with enough force to make a dead guard standing beside it start in surprise. "Careful there, miss. That door'll need repair iff'n you're not cautious wit' it."

"You're going to leave me here?" Her face looked like the low rumble of thunder before a rainshower, "The innkeep informed me, when I asked what rooms the others will be in, that only my room was commissioned, and the others were preparing to depart. Are you seriously leaving, just like that?" His elf was angry. She was, he realized, very, very angry. Her eyes blazed nearly white, seeming to almost vanish into her face, they had become so pale with her anger.

Groll looked helplessly at Morgor, who started backing his worg away. "Oh no, this wasn't my bright idea. Don't look at me."

When he looked at Gormalla, she simply shrugged and crossed her arms, grinning as if at a private joke.

Modaire shook his head, "Not my bad idea, either." His hawkstrider was also creeping backwards, leaving Groll to face his irate wife on his own.

Groll dismounted, slapping the worg on the rump to send him away until needed again. As if it, too, sensed disaster, it bounded away. Groll suddenly felt very alone, and extraordinarily frustrated. "It isn't like that. It's the best thing for you. You'll be safe here."

"Safe? I'll be safe?" Her voice rose on the last word, almost to a shriek. "I'm a priest, my job, my work, my life is in the field, healing people!"

"I know that," Groll said, "but you're in too much danger right now, you need to stay here. What if something happens to me? To us," he waved a hand to indicate the rest of their party, "you'll be defenseless. You're being hunted—"

He didn't get to finish what he was saying. Her voice actually managed to raise an octave, while still avoiding screeching. "Defenseless? You think I'm defenseless? Helpless, am I now?" He couldn't help but admire the way her bosom was heaving, her breasts jiggling slightly over the top of the bodice of her robe. "Oh, I'll show you defenseless, orc."

He wasn't prepared for it when the first shock of magic slammed into him. It hit him with a nearly physical force, slamming into him once, twice, three times, and then four. He swore later that he felt his teeth rattle in his jaw, the magic blasts struck him so hard. Then there was a familiar 'ping' sound as her protective magic shield snapped up around her, glowing in the cold air.

He growled, what was he to do? He wasn't going to hit her. He wasn't going to attack her. She couldn't be serious with this…

She gathered up more Power, her hands seeming to draw it up in the air. Power glowed as Holy magic swept through the air towards her, her hair once more blowing in the breeze created by the gathering magic. He actually yelped out loud as the magic, suddenly released from her, sliced through the air and burned into him with a deadly intent. It began to dawn on him that she might just be angry enough that he should defend himself. But still he hesitated until he felt the magic burning him, Holy fire eating at his hide, burning into his muscles. Another yelp escaped him as it seemed to pulse again, burning white-hot and agonizing, "Stop!" he shouted.

To no avail. This time, she drew shadows to herself, instantly, and released them. Seeing the shadow magic clawing through the air to land on him, wriggling grotesquely into him, his choice was made. He rushed across the short clearing between them, letting the singing in his blood propel him faster than he could go himself. Slamming into her, he felt her magical shield drink the damage, though the impact clearly stunned her for a moment. He drew back, realizing he couldn't hurt her even if he had really, deep down, wanted to—which he didn't.

Somehow, the knowledge infuriated him, and the singing in his blood became a roaring in his ears. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to break down that barrier, and to punish her for the pain he was feeling in every inch of his body. To punish her for using that dark, filthy, horrific magic. The magic that he felt her cast again on him.

In a frenzy, he began to batter at her protection. He felt it about to fall, and redoubled his efforts, hacking at the shield, determined to bring it down. He felt his energy starting to ebb as the brutal magic she'd cast on him did its work. He felt a grim satisfaction, too, though… soon he would break down the barrier that kept him from showing her that he was far more powerful than she…

Then he heard it. The light 'ping' of the shield being renewed. Infuriated, he slammed against the ground again, this time stopping her mid-cast as she was gathering to assault him with more holy fire magic. The same nasty fire had about rimed his body again, but she was stunned for a second, unable to cast it. He let himself feel the thrill of victory, assaulting the barrier that protected her again.

Then she stood up out of the stoop the stun had created in her posture, and he looked into eyes still white with rage, a face set with determination… a face totally devoid of fear. She released another volley of magic at him. Once, and he staggered. Twice and he staggered again, backwards. Three times, and he stumbled. Four times, and he sank to one knee. But he wasn't beaten yet. Close. He felt the pain, the fatigue, the burning of his muscles, but he wasn't done yet, and she was nearly out of reserve power. The shield would fade soon, and then he would prove to her…

She lifted a strange device and snapped it against the flesh of her forearm. Immediately, he felt her reserve Power surge. _Mana injector_, he thought bleakly. "I yield, I yield," he said, still angry, but realizing that one more volley of magic could possibly kill him. And looking into her eyes in that moment, he wasn't certain she wouldn't do it. "You can come with us."

"Damned right, I can come with you. I will do whatever the sam hell I please!" she shouted. Clearly, his yielding did not appease her anger, though she didn't cast on him again.

"You're right," he said meekly, agony screaming through every muscle in his body.

"And, since you thought it would be a good idea to help me unpack, ensuring I would be stuck here longer," she snapped, "you'll damned well go help me pack it back up!" He blinked at her, surprised by the commanding, demanding tone in her voice.

But he got up and followed her into the inn, ignoring the shouts and laughter that followed him. Slowly, painfully, he clomped up the stairs behind her, watching the sway of her hips as he did so. Recognizing as he did so, the incongruence of the fact that he both felt like he was dying, but still wanted nothing more than to be, once more, inside of the woman in front of him.

She slammed the door behind him, and then started stalking towards him. Her finger stabbing at his chest, as if the hard armor wasn't even there, she snapped, each word punctuated by a pointing, stabbing finger, "How dare you? How dare you try to trick me into staying behind?"

"I'm sorry!" he protested, shocked at the stranger before him, "I genuinely thought it would be best!"

Her voice rising to nearly shrill, she said, "You told me you wouldn't leave me! Do you think you're the boss here? Do you think you're the boss of me? That I'll do whatever you say, without question?" She stabbed at him again with her finger, and this time when he backed away, he fell over the pack behind him, landing hard on the floor, his body forcing itself between two of her packs.

She followed him down, though. Mounting him, her knees on the packs that snuggled against his sides, she sat down on him, abruptly and roughly. Pain flashed through him, and he yelped yet again. He was surprised then when she began to cast again, and said, "I said I was sorry! I won't try to trick you again." Instead of the pain he expected, though, he felt his pain subside significantly. He still felt the weakness and trembling in his muscles, but the pain was mostly gone.

Somehow, it didn't feel much better to be pain-free, yet weak and lying on the ground beneath his wife. That was, until she reached down and pulled his codpiece aside, unlacing breeches and underclothing. Immediately, his penis responded to the slight waft of cool air, and the knowledge that an immensely beautiful woman was currently straddling it. It betrayed him by rising swiftly and even eagerly, as it always did around her.

"You think you're in charge here, Groll? You think you're the powerful one?" Her eyes still blazed whitely, and he swallowed as he looked at her. Although she was straddling him in a very, very sexual position, he really wasn't sure what she would do. How could he be sure of anything about her anymore?

She reached into one of her packs and pulled out an hourglass. "Daddy gave me this. I have never found a use for it before. But now we're gonna use it, Groll. We're gonna use it, and you're going to remember it."

She reached down, then, and pulled her robe up. Pulling her panties aside, she slid down onto him in a single, rough stroke. He gasped and arched against her. She began to ride him then, the skin of her butt and thighs slapping against his hide as she rode him rather roughly, using his breastplate for leverage. Her eyes never left his while she plunged up and down on his penis. He sucked in a breath, feeling her heat, her wetness, and her movement all driving him towards release.

Suddenly, though, she stopped. She picked up the small hourglass, and held it up in front of him. "Three minutes. This is a three-minute timer, Groll.

"I'll make a deal with you. You last three minutes without cumming, and I'll stay here."

He blinked blankly at her, "What?"

"Three minutes, Groll. You're powerful, you can control yourself for three minutes, can't you?"

He grinned. Her eyes had changed from the white of rage to nearly blue, challenging him, daring him. "Okay," he said.

She flipped the timer then, and began to ride him again. Groll turned his mind deliberately to counting numbers, taking his focus off of her moist heat on his penis. That was, until she cast a Heal on him. It moved across him, easing his muscles and restoring him. But more than that, it carried the intensity of her lust. He was awash in sensuality as her vaginal walls moved on his penis, and her magic touched him everywhere. It licked across his chest, danced across his belly, and even tenderly caressed his scrotum.

He gasped as she then began to add a rocking motion to her thrusts. Her hips rocked forward and backwards as she went up and down, as if to take in more and more of him with each movement.

She leaned forward, her eyes now deep aqua. "Cum in me, Groll. I want to feel your cock throb as you cum inside me. I want to feel you fill me to overflowing. I want you to fill my pussy with your cum."

He'd never heard her talk that way. He'd never thought of her talking that way. He couldn't believe she was talking that way. But one thing was for sure; it was more than he could take. Growling, he grabbed her hips, hindered slightly by the packs, and thrust up into her. He felt his scrotum tighten, and then he released into her, the feeling both desperately good, and almost painful.

She leaned forward, looking him straight in the eyes for a moment. She looked pleased, her eyes half-shut with desire. "I win," she said, and looked towards the hourglass. Sand still ran through it, and when he looked back at her, she said, "I'm going. If you were so powerful, you could have stopped yourself from doing what I wanted you to do…" her voice trailed off with a smirk.

"What if I wanted to do what you wanted? What if I came because I knew you'd like it?"

She grinned then, "Well, Groll, I would say that still shows genuine power. You wanted to please me, so you did what I wanted you to. And you even risked your male dignity not to continue the fight outside, knowing it would injure me for you to keep going. I would say that you're not as in charge as you think you are."

Then her face became stern, almost cold, "Don't you ever try to leave me like that again, Groll. Whatever possessed you to try that to begin with?"

He sighed, "You're a woman, you don't need to be out fighting while you're—"

"Are you kidding me? There are plenty of women out there, some of them are even warriors." His penis still a willing captive inside her, she sat up, her arms crossed, and scowling. "You think I'm weak because I'm a woman?"

"No, but—"

"I'll tell you what, how about you stay here, and let the women warriors outside go fight your battles? How would that feel?"

"I'm not pregnant," he said.

The pronouncement hung in the air between them for a moment, her eyes wide and surprised.

"How did you know? I tried to tell you, but we kept being interrupted."

"Morgor told me. He heard you talking to the alchemist about it. I'm sorry I didn't let you prepare yourself." It seemed a lifetime ago, those few days ago when he'd first taken her against the rock in the pond in the Barrens. "We'll figure it out, Shantille. But that's why it's so important for you to stay here while we go deal with this. I want my wife and son safe." She nodded adamantly when he asked her if she wanted their child, and he was flooded with relief.

"There's a flaw in that logic though, Groll, I'm sorry. I would venture to say, in fact, that I'd be safer with you rather than here alone by a significant margin." Her gaze was thoughtful and direct.

"What? It's perfect sense for you to be here, where there are soldiers and walls," he scowled, why couldn't she see the logic in it?

"Except that at least once, and most likely twice now, the trolls have used a portal right into my room," she said, and he felt like he'd been hit in the chest by a charging mammoth. It sank into him suddenly, harshly… she was correct. Her greatest safety lay in having people who could reach her swiftly, people who were closer- and more invested in her well-being- than the innkeep or guards would be here.

Stymied, unable to come up with a response to her logic, he nodded. "You're right, you should come with us."

She nodded, and slipped off of him. He said as he stood, "Besides, you won our wager." He grinned at her.

She reached out and closed the flap of his underclothing and laced his breeches. When he started to protest that he was going to clean himself first, she stopped him with a finger against his broad lips, "You'll wear that today, in case you think to forget." He knew what she meant, as if now it was her turn to mark him as hers. He would walk outside with the fluids from their lovemaking drying on him, known only to her and to him. He would ride with the knowledge constantly in his mind… driving him wild with lust. He thought idly for a moment that usually sex satisfied him for a day or so. With this particular woman, though, it made him want more and more.

By that time, she was at the door. Turning around, she looked at him, her deep green eyes betraying her amusement and taking the bite out of her words, "And bring those with you!" The door snapped shut behind her, timbers groaning in their stone braces.

He scowled properly, and picked up the packs, rapidly repacking them. Then he left the room, disgruntled that he'd already paid for the room, knowing it wouldn't be refunded. Especially since it was his own stupid fault. But what nagged at him was that he'd let his lust for her, his feelings for her, interfere with the fact that he should have considered the portals and realized she wouldn't be safe.

Emerging from the inn, he saw the phalanx of Horde soldiers waiting. One of them, an orc, shouted, "Behold the mighty Groll Hellhammer, felled by a wee slip of an elf woman!" The garrison cheered, then laughed. Groll gave them a sweeping bow, and then after he laced Shantille's bags to her mount, leaped on his worg.

Trotting up beside Morgor and Modaire, he grimaced at them. "Good move, oh mighty one," Morgor snorted.

"Indeed," Modaire added. "May I advise you, old friend, that next time before you try to trick a woman, you get the garrison first!"

Morgor and Modaire laughed, and from behind them, Shantille and Gormalla joined in. Groll just sighed, though admittedly, he rather thought Modaire had a good point.

The garrison left Vengeance Landing on running mounts, the Executor commanding it very clear that they wouldn't fly, as not all of the soldiers were competent winter flyers. Groll was glad, as Shantille couldn't fly while pregnant- that was one thing that midwives all seemed to agree upon. Flying while pregnant was unwise for various reasons, even low altitude flying. He felt rather guilty, in fact, given how often she'd already flown while pregnant. It would have been difficult to explain their reticence about flying, and he was glad to have the necessity removed so neatly.

So as they left Vengeance Landing, Groll felt almost a sense of expansive hope and well being. It seemed fate or some deity was smiling upon them, that fortune had kissed them. The sense of doom he'd felt earlier was replaced by a buoyant and comfortable mood. The air was cold and damp, and the day seemed dark and still and close… yet even this couldn't dampen his mood.

His wife was with him, carrying his son, protected and loved and wanted within her womb. It was the right place for them to be. If he'd been honest with himself, he'd have admitted that most of his good mood was because it hadn't been the best thing after all to leave her behind. But he ignored that, and simply basked in the comfortable feeling, even enjoying the jibing of his friends and the soldiers about getting his ass kicked by a scrawny little fingerwaggling, magic-user elf.

They had ridden for only a couple of hours before the first stop because Shantille needed to relieve herself. The Commander of the garrison, a Forsaken named Twinse, casually assigned one of the female blood elf paladins to escort her, and the two moved off into the brush. Before long, they returned, and the ride resumed. But it had begun an odd reaction amongst the garrison that troubled Groll. He couldn't, however, place why that was.

They began to argue. It started simply enough, a small fight broke out. Just a verbal argument. The two soldiers were reprimanded and then moved away from each other. Not must after that, however, another fight broke out. This time, blows were exchanged, and the two were dragged apart, each trying still to get back to the other to complete the fight.

Tempers flaring, the garrison struggled on through the rest of that afternoon, until twilight fell. Twinse invited Groll to join him, and began to ask him probing questions about the events of the past few days. The longer they spoke, the more anxious and unnerved the man seemed to get, despite Groll's attempts to remind him that the fights had indeed all been won so far. Furthermore, the longer they rode, the less decisive the man seemed to become. By evening, most of the solders were unconsciously looking towards Groll and Morgor for direction, accepting their "suggestions" as if they were direct orders.

Finally, when he was able to, Groll pulled Morgor aside. "Is it just me, or is something very, very strange going on here?" Groll asked Morgor.

"You've noticed it, too, huh? It's having the effect of making Shantille's frequent bathroom trips less noticeable, but it's definitely extraordinary. I asked one of the mages, and even Shantille. No one seems to sense any magic at work here, which makes it all the stranger." Morgor looked seriously worried. "And Twinse's hold on the group is deteriorating rapidly. I even find myself wondering how he ever got command of a garrison at all."

Groll nodded. "There's definitely something going on here, and I don't like it," he said. Morgor simply nodded in grim agreement.

The garrison rode into the evening, until at last, Morgor made the decision for them, that they should stop and make camp. At the suggestion of one of the scouts, they made camp below a small rise, where the most dangerous wildlife around were rams grazing, cow-eyed, on what sparse, frozen grass they could dig out of the snow.


	8. Chapter 8

Part 8

Groll felt her hands on him then, light, soft, sweet. He groaned, looking down to see her lips encircling his penis. She ran her mouth up and down, one hand working the shaft of it, while her other hand rubbed firmly below his scrotum, sometimes coming up to wrap around and fondle his testicles as they nestled inside it.

He could feel the heat of her body against his leg, and the wetness of her naked folds as she once more rubbed them against him. The rubbing of her mound against his leg matched the rhythm of her mouth on his penis, and he felt himself building towards a climax. Outside the window, an owl hooted, so close that it made him jump.

He looked up and out the window, and then looked back down at Shantille. Now she was wearing that purple dress, and her hair had come loose from its braid. It sprawled out across his chest, a pool of warm darkness. She began to speed up, her mouth making slurping sounds as she sucked him faster…

He reached up to move the pillow under him so that he could see her better, and the cold air hit him in the face with a punishing blast. He awoke to find himself lying in the camp, alone, his erection painfully pressing against his breeches. It hadn't known it was only a dream, and Groll felt the same degree of disappointment that his swollen, hungry penis must surely have been feeling.

With a groan, he sat up, and got out from under the covers. Like other soldiers, he often slept in his armor while on campaign, and this time was no different. It was one of the positives of being a veteran- enchanted/magic armor was often comfortable enough to sleep in. Not the best, but not unpleasant enough to bring cramped muscles or discomfort.

Easing out of the bedroll, he quietly picked up the heavy, fur-lined wool cloak and draped it over his shoulders. Walking out to the first sentry location, he chatted with the sentry there. "The woman's been out again," the blood elf said, "using the toilet." A euphemism for squatting behind a tree and hoping no one saw. Groll didn't know much about the way that women's bodies worked, so he decided to ask Morgor the next day why she was going out so often. "I was about to tell Executor Twinse. I think she's been out too long."

Groll froze, trying to keep panic from overtaking him. "I'll go check," he said.

"Alright, but I'd be careful, if I were you. I'm not sure that I'd want to sneak up on her while she was using the toilet after today's fiasco, if I were you." The sentry chuckled and tried to shut it off as Groll glowered at him. "Oh, hey," the blood elf added, "the orc woman went out with her this time, so Canille could sleep. Gormalla is her name?"

Groll relaxed. Gormalla was more than competent, a skilled and highly intelligent woman. He moved out into the woods, searching for the two women. As he had moved quietly through the trees, he saw Shantille sitting on a log, alone. Concerned, he moved more quickly towards her, searching for Gormalla.

Shantille looked up as he approached, smiling when he came to sit beside her. "We'll reach Camp Winterhoof early tomorrow morning," Groll said. She nodded, leaning against him. He felt himself stir again at her nearness, his lust building simply from that and the lingering memory of his dream.

They sat there for a few moments, before Groll asked, "Where's Gormalla?" He was concerned, they were far from the camp, much farther than he'd realized even at first.

"She was behind me a bit ago," Shantille said, "but I turned to her, and she was gone. So I thought it best to wait for her here. I was about to come back to camp without her when you got here."

Shantille turned her face up towards him, and caught a slight glow from the moons. For a moment, her face, shrouded by dark hair, seemed to hover, ghostlike, above the black fur cloak she wore to ward off the cold. The moons threw her features into sharp relief, making her look almost skeletal, and a ghost for real. Once more, that dark sense of foreboding crawled through him, darker and harder than the shadow magic she'd thrown at him earlier in the day.

"We need to get back, Shantille," he said, a sudden frisson of apprehension flickering roughly up his spine.

Then she moved, and the illusion was broken. Suddenly, Groll realized this was a moment he wasn't likely to see again. He was with her, she was safe enough. Now was the time to ask her what he needed to know- now while he had her alone and while there was time. A part of him, pessimistic, anxious, fearful, whispered, _while she's still alive_. He pushed the thought away. He couldn't afford to be fanciful yet again, a malady he seemed to be suffering frequently lately.

"Before we go, Shantille, I need to know something," he said. At her quizzical look, he asked, "Why do you love me? Can't you see how dark, how brutal, even bestial I am?"

She reached out and touched his cheek. Now, the capricious moons painted her with soft tones, warming her skin so that she seemed beautiful in an unearthly, mystical way. "I love you because I see your power, Groll. I see the strength in you- strength not only of body, but also of character. I see people's energy- their power—in the same way that many people get first impressions. I am never wrong about a person, and the moment I meet them, I know if they are basically good, basically dark, basically honest or false…"

She paused as he swallowed and buried his face in her hair again, suddenly finding it difficult to look at her. Did she see the darkness in him?

As if she read his mind, she said, "I see the conflict in you, Groll. I know that you fear that the dark part of you is the most powerful. We all have a dark part, not one of us is exempt, even me." She pulled away and put both hands on his perpetually scruffy jaw, ignoring the dark braids that fell over her hands. She looked into his face with a tenderness that he could never imagine turned upon someone as ugly as he.

"But I also see the other part of you. The part of you that you take for granted. I see both your darkness, and your brilliant light, Groll. You think the darkness is the most powerful, yet in all of your inner battles, the light in you never fails to win, it is the strongest part—"

"Well, well, well… now isn't that touching," drawled Gormalla as she stepped from between the trees to the west of them. She clapped derisively, "Good show, good show."

Behind her, dark forms began to emerge from the trees. It was a moment before Groll realized… they were trolls.

"All my life, I've heard about the great Groll Helhammer and his friend Morgor. How you were stolen at ages 4 and 6 by demons, with only their blood to drink to sustain yourselves. I cut my milk teeth on tales of how you killed four of them single-handedly at the age of 12, freeing yourself and Morgor. I knew countless tales of your glorious kills and battles before I was 3 years old.

"And for two decades now, you've spurned me. All of this could have been avoided, Groll. I'd be at your side right now, fighting with you, if you'd only married me. Marrying you would have cemented my position in Orgrimmar society. I'd be the wife of a legend, elevated to a status nearly unparalleled.

"But no, you consort with filth, an unnatural perversion." At his startled look she sneered, "Yes, I know. I've watched the trolls scry on you, and seen the sick, twisted things you've done with her. And we know that your hellspawn even now grows within her. They're taking your bitch and your whelp, Groll, and the scourge will use them both. Your spawn won't be the last to grow in her belly," Gormalla's laugh was cruel, vicious, spiteful.

She stood up then and crossed her arms, "Really, Groll, you should have seen this coming. I expected to have a guard set on me this whole time, but it seems you never once considered I might figure out your little secret and be properly disgusted by your perversions. Stupid mistake. Did you really think you could just get away with it?"

Signaling the trolls, she stepped away from Groll and Shantille, "Take them."

A hammer strike of realization drove through Groll, driving him to his feet with a thunderous roar that shook previously sleeping birds from the nearby trees. The extent of the betrayal refused for a moment to impress upon his mind. For all her roughness, for all her faults, Gormalla had given much, riding with them often. She was competent, intelligent, capable, and very talented as a warrior. As an orc woman, she was well liked and respected in general. That she could betray him this way was more than he could fathom.

Once more, as the trolls began to close in on them, Blood Drinker and his shield seemed to leap into Groll's hands, mirroring his deep desire for blood and death. There were far too many of them, Groll realized immediately. He suspected that Gormalla had agreed to separate Shantille if possible, but that they had come prepared for a larger battle, if need be.

He and Shantille were outnumbered by more than ten to one, so far as he could see in the moonlight that reflected off of the snow, but he had a sinking feeling that there were even more than that. The garrison would even have found this to be a challenge. But by all that was Holy, Groll wasn't going without a fight. And neither, apparently, was Shantille. She remained close, but not too close- he could maneuver and swing Blood Drinker freely without striking her.

When the trolls rushed him, as he knew they would, he stood staunchly, waiting. Another roar, his only hope being that he could hold out long enough for the garrison to hear him and come locate them. This time, he channeled his rage, the intense, utter fury he felt from Gormalla's betrayal, into the roar as he leaped upwards and landed with a concussive blow on the ground.

Then they were upon him. He was aided slightly by the fact that they pressed unwisely together, all of them trying to reach him at once. The shield pinged around him, but he felt it rapidly demolished, despite them hindering each other in their eagerness. He felt the first blow land on his back, then one cut across his cheek, blood running inside his helm. He parried several blows in rapid succession, but then he felt a weapon- probably a dagger—cut into a gap in his armor, biting deep into his leg. It missed the hamstring, only to slice viciously into muscle mass.

He stumbled, cursing his weakness, and felt the healing energy soothe him. She was there, she was doing her best, but he knew she couldn't keep up. To his surprise, a powerful wave of magic slammed across his assailants, holy magic that healed him, but burned deeply into them. He grimaced, almost feeling sympathy for them, his own encounter with that magic fresh in his memory.

He parried another blow, then landed several of his own. Moonlight glittered and danced on the drops of troll blood as they flew through the air, mindlessly mingling with his own. He roared again, funneling ever-increasing frenzy and rage into it, causing them to pause for a moment as the concussive blow of fury once more stunned them.

It was then that he realized that the troll in front of him was near death, as were several others. He felt a grim satisfaction as the troll was once again slammed by a furious blast of Holy fire. He also felt a powerful, renewed respect for his wife as he recognized the source of the devastating magic. Another flash of magic. Another parry. One more flash of magic, and the troll in front of him turned to flee. Another brilliant flash, and Groll landed another blow that reverberated up his arm. The magic had done its work. He was alive, and most of the trolls closest to them in the press fell, their bodies smoking still from the powerful magic that had taken their lives.

But it seemed that as soon as they fell, more replaced them. He felt Shantille's Power surge up again, and thought fervently that he would never curse a mana injector again. The two fought grimly on, both of them aware that it was a matter of life and death. Both were hoping to hold out long enough for the garrison to arrive.

It didn't. More and more blows were landing on Groll now. And he felt the pain Shantille was feeling as several trolls dragged her away from him, roughly, brutally. He caught sight of her, struggling and twisting as trolls held her arms and legs, fighting to subdue her. He bellowed again, agonized by the sight. She fought them silently, no shrieking, no screaming. He almost wished she would; yet he knew his heart couldn't take it. Perhaps the garrison could find them if they heard her… but if they hadn't heard him and arrived, it was unlikely they could hear her, either.

It seemed like hours later before he finally succumbed. His left arm hung uselessly, the shield dangling from it, dragging painfully. His right hamstring had been severed, and his right forearm was broken, his own powerful muscles dragging the hand, now rendered useless, up into a painfully twisted position. Blood drinker lay where it had fallen, gleaming red in the wan moonlight.

Blood ran from his mouth, his lungs gargling with every breath. He coughed and blackness hazed over his vision for an instant. He felt pain in every part of his body, acute and immediate. He felt himself falling forward, felt the fire of another sword slicing into his neck, biting his skin and tearing flesh.

"Stop," Gormalla's voice cut across the small clearing.

As Groll landed face first in the snow, she stooped down beside him, grabbing one of his braids and dragging his head up. "Look, Groll," she said, twisting him harshly. He saw, though a dark red haze, Shantille thrown over the front of a raptor saddle. She was bound and covered in blood, her head lolling like one dead against the side of the raptor. Incongruently, he worried that she might miscarry from the pommel of the saddle pressing into her abdomen in that manner.

"She belongs to the scourge now, Groll. Let your dying breath be taken with the knowledge that you let her be taken, that you let her be used by the scourge. It could have been different, but you had to have her, didn't you. You couldn't settle down with a proper orc woman, you chose this perversion, this distortion that goes against all of nature."

Gormalla slammed his head down, and he felt agony rush through it. He realized that he was losing blood rapidly. He watched her walk away in a haze of pain, grief, and betrayal. She reached her mount and pulled a strange, twisted looking idol out of a pack. Walking back to him, she caressed it, and said a word in incantation. A cloud arose from it, and lazily wafted through the air towards him.

"A gift from Slad'Ran," she said. She laughed then, and strode to her mount, riding away without a second look.

The cloud settled on Groll then, slowly, seeping into him as he lay, struggling, on the ground. Confusion had set in from the blood loss, but still Groll knew one thing. He had to reach her. He had to save her. Digging his left leg into the ground, grunting, he crawled across the clearing, lumping over dead bodies, howling in pain and anguish.

But then the curse began to do its work. It rooted through his veins and muscles, until it found bone. Then, it began to systematically break them. The first to go was his left shin. Groll bellowed, as much from the pain as from the loss of the small remaining mobility. Grunting, groaning, he pushed with his knee now, until the insidious magic even found that. Groll simply moaned as the powerful thigh bone snapped, and he coughed, blood spurting from mouth and neck wound.

He felt a coldness seeping into him then. _Shock_, he thought dimly, _I'm going into shock_. Then he felt the familiar feeling of Death once more knocking on the door. He fought it, slapped it away, roaring as his left arm twitched as he tried. A bone in his skull snapped then, and Groll's lungs, now full of blood, refused the call to grunt in pain.

He could feel parts of himself shutting down. He smelt his bowels and his bladder release, and felt a deep shame come over him. There would be no glorious death for him, only this slow, stately dive into the pits of hell. His wife was taken, gone to what fate he could only guess. He had soiled himself, and he was dying.

Soon, he heard his breath rattle, and he felt despair. Then darkness claimed him.

Quiet fell over the clearing, leaving behind broken, dead trolls, blood splattered snow, and a single orc. The only sound was the occasional 'crack!' of yet another bone breaking, the curse relentlessly, mindlessly following its programming. A single tear traced down the orc's face to land unnoticed in the bloody snow.

When the curse ran out of whole bones to break, it began to shatter the fragments that remained.

Someone was holding him down, roughly, brutally. With a jolt, he realized it was trolls, they were everywhere, and they were swarming on him in the darkness. He bellowed, twisting in their relentless grip. Pain stabbed through his body, and a bone broke. Roaring in pain and rage, he thrashed wildly, jerking with all his considerable strength on the remaining three limbs.

With an explosive 'crack!' another bone broke. He twisted in furious pain, grasping desperately for Blood Drinker. But his hand was empty, of course. They wouldn't leave his sword with him. So he used his massive, deadly fists. He was gratified to hear a yelp of pain, and yelling erupted, "Tie him down!" someone shouted, and Groll thrashed harder.

Another 'crack!' and Groll felt blackness settle over him again, just as ropes were tied around him in the darkness. The black oblivion of unconsciousness was a blessed reprieve from the agony.

He came to some time later, shrouded in complete darkness. He was tied down, his legs and arms bound snugly, but not painfully. He growled and yanked on one of the ropes. It broke, snapping upwards with his leg. Shouting broke loose at the sound, and Groll felt an intense, splitting pain as a bone snapped in his back, a sudden blankness below his shoulders driving him to a bellow, cut short by another snapping sound. "Don't you ever let me loose, because I will kill you all!" Groll roared, enraged, the trolls swarming around him in the darkness like ants, grasping at him, tugging. He felt little pain, but the empty feeling below his shoulders terrified him. "I want my wife, and I will get her, no matter how many of you I have to kill!"

He heard a roaring in his ears, and realized it was his own voice, bellowing, shouting, threatening. It did no good. He was tied down again, and a sudden 'crack!' in the back of his head sent him spiraling back down into the comforting darkness.

He swam in and out of the darkness, each time being assaulted when he awakened. He fought his attackers, occasionally landing a powerful blow, but over-all, he lost. Each time, when he managed to break an arm or a leg free from the binds that restrained him, his bones were broken one after another, driving him back into the darkness.

Once, he dreamed that High Overlord Saurfang was at his bedside. When he begged for news of Shantille, he was told that the trolls had taken her, and that Groll himself was cursed. Groll bellowed and swore, lashing out at the apparition in fury and pain. His mind screamed denial, but he knew it was true. He bargained with the apparition, begging it, beseeching it. "Let me go, let me go get her. I won't fail this time. I have to get her. I have to save my son. They're going to use them both."

He was interrupted by another stabbing, screaming pain. He gritted his teeth and arched against his bonds, before blackness once more claimed him.

He heard chanting. Spells, the demon trolls were casting spells. He bellowed again, jerking and twisting against his bonds. He snarled and gritted his teeth as the ropes cut into his wrists this time. They were raw and painful, burned from the rope chafing as he pulled and twisted against it. "When I get out of here, you're dead! You're all dead!"

The chanting continued, and he snarled. Slowly, he began to relax. The spell continued, unabated. As it did so, he realized he was beginning to feel better, clearer. The pain began to recede. Then the darkness claimed him yet again, but he slept a normal sleep this time. He dreamed, but when he awoke, he couldn't remember them.

He was awakened by the scent of cooking shoveltusk steak. His stomach growled, and he sat up with a start, gasping for breath. Light shone into the tent he was in, illuminating a service chair where an untidy looking blood elf man slept soundly. Closer to Groll was a tray of food, and he looked up, surprised, to see Morgor sitting just beyond it.

"Welcome back," his friend said.

Groll heard a sound in the corner on the other side of his bed and was shocked to find High Overlord Saurfang there. "Sir," Groll said, "am I dreaming again?" He realized it was a rather stupid question: if you were dreaming and someone said you weren't, how would you know if they were lying?

"It wasn't a dream the last time, son, and it's not a dream this time," Saurfang said. "I was here then, and you nearly clocked me with those meat hooks of yours." When Groll made as if to speak, Saurfang stopped him with an upraised hand. "I'm here, along with a second and third garrison, to help you get that wife of yours back."

Groll felt himself go pale, and his stomach dropped out of him. The High Overlord knew.

"Yes, I know, Groll. After all the bellowing and roaring you've done in the last few hours, everyone knows. Calm yourself; I'm not going to hurt either of you. Matter of fact is, it's long past time that foolish taboo was lifted, anyway." Saurfang pointed at the food, "Eat, and we'll talk some more."

Finding himself practically starving, Groll ate voraciously, tearing into the bread and shoveltusk steak with a vengeance. When at last his hunger was sated, he sat back with a firm, resounding belch. Saurfang grinned.

"We can't tarry here long. You've been incapacitated for over 12 hours. It took three priests working in shifts nearly the entire time just to keep you alive. Nothing we had was able to cure whatever curse they put on you. It seems that they were pretty convinced you'd be dead by now, though, fortunately. It faded about 3 hours ago.

"I know you have a lot of questions, and we've learned a few answers while you were out. Some of them by simple deduction." Saurfang glanced at Morgor. "It seems as if your wife has an interesting ability. It's innate, so it doesn't seem to register to any sensitives as magic." Groll blinked, it wasn't at all unheard of for people to have rare, latent abilities. But most of them came from a family line of it, or had shown it long before now.

Clearly anticipating the question, Saurfang continued, "Her ability is so subtle that no one has really noticed it… or should I say, none of us noticed it. The scourge most definitely noticed it. And they want it, they want it quite badly, it seems.

"When people get around her, their basic nature seems to be magnified, they become polarized. For example, shortly after the attack on you, Twinse—never the best commander to begin with—deserted, leaving the garrison without competent leadership on any official basis. Your friend here, however, took over as naturally as breathing." He gestured towards Morgor.

"It seems that the scourge want her to magnify and polarize their evil. It's easy to see how this would give them a clear advantage. We suspect that they have some sort of device, or another person, they intend to tandem with her in order to magnify not just basic nature, but also their power. This is a lethal combination, and must be stopped at all costs." Now Saurfang looked at him with a very direct, very stern, yet compassionate gaze. "At all costs" meant that if they couldn't rescue Shantille, she would be killed. Groll felt ill at the very thought.

"It won't come to that," Groll said, nearly shouting it. His voice lowered and he said, "I'll see to it. Upon my honor, I'll see to it."

Saurfang nodded, then left the tent. Groll knew that the fact remained there, between them, whatever accord they might seem to have. If Groll failed again, Saurfang, or someone else, would destroy Shantille rather than let her remain in enemy hands.

When Saurfang left, Morgor sat back in the field service chair. "You're quite the celebrity after these last few hours, man. I think some of them are going to be on their knees worshipping you when you go outside." He laughed at his own joke, but then sobered at Groll's surprised look. "It's true. You survived quite the ordeal, took a lot of trolls out with you, and still managed to drag yourself a good ways. Not to mention completely ignoring an age-old taboo that no one else had the courage to kill off."

"But I… I soiled myself, I dishonored myself," Groll said, shame touching him even as he said it. "I let her be taken, I failed to protect her."

"You're not serious, are you? You were dying, man. When we found you, you had more holes in you than Dalaran sharp cheese. Everybody loses it when they're almost dead. Since when has that ever bothered you before when it was anyone else?" Morgor's words strangely comforted Groll. As a veteran of many wars, Groll knew that many brave men had evacuated themselves as death approached. Some of them had been saved, and never had he considered it to be of import, and certainly not a disgrace. He realized that to consider himself dishonored, he would have to consider those brave souls to have been dishonored, and that, he could not- would not- do.

"And as far as letting them take her," Morgor went on, "you took more than twenty-two of them with you, between you and Shantille. If there hadn't been so many of them, it would have been considered a full-scale massacre." He shook his head, "There was nothing you could do, Groll. Maybe you've become so accustomed to success that you can't accept it when reality intrudes upon your track record."

Morgor got up and started to leave. "By the way, do poor Tensor over there a favor, and sleep some more. He needs it. He's been up since you were dragged into camp, kicking and screaming like a little girl," Morgor snickered, ribbing Groll, but good-naturedly. "When you're done resting, we'll be moving on to Camp Winterhoof."

The group moved out the next morning, practically a small army. In the way that large groups have, it moved slowly, like an injured elekk lumbering slowly after the hunter who has fatally wounded it. Groll fretted, fearful that they would fail to reach Shantille in time to save her. His anxiety was relayed to his mount, the worg snapping and snarling at any other mount that pressed too close to it, including High Overlord Saurfang's mount when he approached. With a snarl, Saurfang snapped his worg away, telling Groll abruptly to get his mount, and his own emotions, under control.

When Groll apologized, Saurfang rode close again. Their worgs jostled and snapped slightly, but settled down quickly this time. "We're going to bypass Camp Winterhoof with the bulk of the men, but I think you should go in and speak with Greatmother Ankha. She may have some recommendations or knowledge that will serve us. Perhaps a potion that may help restore you, as well."

Groll nodded. Despite the expert Healing of the shamans and priests in the garrisons, he still felt exhausted and spent. The physical suffering, as well as the emotional onslaught of the last few days had taken a steep toll on his body and spirits.

When he went to get Modaire and Morgor, Groll was surprised to find the blood elf Tensor with them. Still looking a bit disheveled and out of sorts, Tensor informed Groll shortly that he was a paladin, had been assigned to them as their healer, and was in no mood for discussion after being repeatedly punched, kicked, and once even nearly bitten by a deranged orc all night long. He followed them on his black, shrouded horse, looking surly and tired. Groll was grateful to have been assigned a healer, yet disconcerted by the unnaturally difficult attitude of the paladin.

When he looked at his companions, Morgor simply shrugged, "He's really good at what he does, but you roughed him up pretty badly last night. I'm pretty sure it'll take a while for him to warm up to you. He was quite polite and even pleasant yesterday. Maybe getting clocked in the head has something to do with the attitude change." Modaire's face contorted as he tried to hold back a laugh.

"It wasn't on purpose, I thought he was a troll!"

At this, Modaire burst out laughing. "For us elves," he said, "that only makes it worse!"

Groll sighed. He was pretty sure that this was another in a growing line of things he was never going to hear the end of.

Modaire said then, "I didn't realize that you and Shantille were so close. Congratulations, both on the marriage and the pregnancy. I'm sorry it's so late, but here." Modaire handed him five hand wrapped cigarettes in a small silver case. They were long, slender, and pale green. "They've got bloodthistle in them, so be careful after you use it." When Groll made to start politely smoking one (not being a smoker, but feeling he ought to be polite about it, at least), Modaire stopped him, "No, it's to celebrate your son's birth. Don't smoke it now," he chuckled. Groll tucked the small, neat case away in his packs, oddly touched by the gesture. "It's elven tradition, even among those who don't typically smoke."

They rode for almost an hour in companionable silence before once more Modaire spoke, "This has been an amazing ride. It'll probably be my final one, though. I've commissioned a tower in Durotar, where I'll live out my final days."

Groll was surprised, "I didn't realize you were that old, friend," he said.

Modaire shrugged, "I'm an elf, I won't look old until I'm about to die from old age. It's our way."

They rode in silence a while longer, and Groll was acutely reminded of how many friends he'd lost to old age. The march of years was far longer for him than most, thanks to his demon-tainted blood. He wasn't immortal, just long lived. It made love difficult, but also made his love for a long-lived elf over a short-lived orc woman a comparatively less painful decision. Groll wondered for the rest of the ride to Winterhoof whether or not he would out-live her. Whether he would live long enough to see her grow old and die.

Whether or not she would be an elf still, or if she had already been turned, her beautiful face now sunken and gaunt like death. He shuddered at the thought, and tried to correct the maudlin path his mind had taken. He would reach her, he would get there long before it was too late. He would, if he died trying.

Which, as he now well knew, he just might.

When they approached Winterhoof, Groll headed directly for Greatmother Ankha. He wanted to get this interview over as quickly as possible. When he arrived, he found her kneeling in front of a campfire, which was kept burning permanently, a situation with actually caused grass to grow around it, a ring of green within a ring of snow.

The Greatmother was an old Tauren, possibly the oldest he'd ever seen. Her muzzle was gray, even the pelt on her shoulders and the mane that flowed over them were grayed. She looked at him with eyes rheumy with age. Her voice was low, old, and hollow when she spoke to him, and she wheezed slightly. "What do you want, warrior?"

Groll knelt in front of her, oddly awed by her presence. "I smell demon taint on you, boy," she said, and he nodded. "You must be Groll." He nodded again.

"And that, that must be Morgor Icefist, your friend," she said. "He reeks of the same taint that you do," she said rudely. Groll sighed, it seemed that she was going to be difficult to deal with.

"We have come to seek your wisdom," Morgor said, sitting down beside her, cross-legged on the grass, so out of place in the cold. The old tauren looked at him for long moments.

"It's good that you ask, instead of him. Your loyalty is powerful, and though he overshadows you with deeds in orc society, in our society, you are the one most respected. Loyalty is valued above all else, and although he is just as loyal to you, it is you who lives in his shadow, not he in yours," she stirred the fire pensively, then after a few moments of silence, "Ask what you will of me, Morgor Icefist. If it is mine to grant, it is yours to have."

Morgor reached out to the old woman and laid a hand on one of hers. They both seemed to understand the gesture, and sat again for a few moments before Morgor spoke. "We need to know where Shantille is. We need to know the path to her. We need to know if she is where we think she is. We believe there's no time to waste, as we now know that she is to be Turned."

The elderly woman turned her ancient eyes upon Groll again, and he struggled not to squirm under the direct, penetrating gaze. "Twice now, you've been touched by a Goddess. Both times, you've ignored her warnings. Nothing here is what you think it is. I can tell you no more except that the information you seek can be found by Ruuna the Blind in Grizzly Hills.

"Oh, and Groll?" When he looked at her inquisitively, she said, "Take Ruuna some flowers. I have no idea how you ever managed to get that woman to marry you, as little as you know about women." He scowled and then sighed. Did everyone know about his wife handing him his ass in Vengeance Landing? "Don't take it too hard, Groll," the old woman said, "if I want to know anything about weaponry, war, or killing things, I'll look you up first."

Groll glowered at Morgor as he smothered a snicker, and then turned the same smoldering glare onto Modaire as he failed in his own attempts to smother laughter, letting out what could hardly be called anything besides a guffaw. They left the encampment, and as they were passing across a bridge, Groll saw a brightly colored feather flutter across the ground. Acutely embarrassed, he stopped the others and made them wait while he awkwardly chased it down. Returning to his mount, his stoic but set face dared the others to laugh. No one did.

Bidding them wait where they were, he returned to town. Clomping slowly up to the Greatmother, he laid the feather on the leather padding she was sitting on, not wanting to disrupt her meditation.

"Groll," she said, and he turned back to look at her. "I hope you find her." She stood and chanted softly, and he felt himself washed over in glowing, soothing, rejuvenating magic. The glow settled into him, and he realized that it would last some time, restoring him further as he rode.

He nodded grimly, and mounted. Leaving once more, he felt the glow of the Greatmother's blessing following him. He hoped he found her, too. And soon.

He pondered the discussion. _Twice touched by a Goddess?_ he wondered, _When did a Goddess touch me?_ With a jolt, he realized he knew when it was. Once, in the inn before leaving Vengeance Landing when he'd felt he should stay there with her, and again just before Shantille was taken, when he felt they should have left to return to the garrison. Each time, the thoughts had been reasonable, but both times they'd been accompanied by an unsettling and profound sense of impending doom.

What bothered him the most about the whole idea, though, was why was a Goddess trying to communicate with him to begin with? And which one? Was there some clue in that as to where to find Shantille? Although they had the amulet already, Groll knew well that they were banking on it in a way that could lead them completely astray. Especially given that Gormalla had said the curse was a gift from Slad'Ran, who was the prophet who had killed his own god, Sseratus. In the process, stealing Sseratus' powers for himself. So if it was a so-called 'gift' from Slad'Ran, were they on the wrong track by heading towards the temple of Quetz'lun?

Groll's mind churned, trying to decipher the puzzle. He felt confused, and he gritted his teeth, the last thing he needed or wanted was confusion on this issue. His wife's life depended on him making the right choice, the first time. There was no time to waste on figuring it out, on deciding which way to go. If they went to Gun'Drak to confront Slad'Ran, but Shantille was in the temple of Quetz'lun, then she would most likely be dead or Turned before they arrived- assuming she wasn't already.

If she was Turned, because of his love for her, Groll would kill her himself. She would die at the hand of her husband and lover, and no other. He would send his wife and son to their graves with honor before he would let them be used against his friends, his clan, and his people. Because of her latent talent, this was bigger than the two of them, thus he couldn't cling to foolish ideas like 'where there's life, there's hope.'

With these thoughts churning in his mind, Groll's mood rapidly deteriorated. Once more, his anger and concern were relayed to his mount, and his friends began to ride at a distance from him, granting him and his surly mount a wide berth. It was, oddly enough, the paladin who finally rode close to him. Groll's worg snapped at the other man's horse, and the horse bit the worg hard on the muzzle. With a yelp, the worg subsided.

"I've studied a lot of the scourge constructs. For her talent to remain intact, they will need to preserve her brain. That means that it'll be a more complicated process than simply Turning her with plague. It's going to take time to prepare, but once they're prepared, it will go fast from there." Tensor looked at him impassively. "So there's hope that she may still be intact by the time we find her. But I couldn't even begin to guess how long that will be."

Groll felt somewhat comforted by the man's words. He nodded silently, and Tensor continued to ride beside him for a time. "I don't know if you know it or not, but orc genetics are dominant in most cases. Your son will probably look like you."

Groll stared at the elf in surprise. "I hadn't really thought about it," he admitted.

"Well, it's another area of interest for me. Had the scourge not…" his voice trailed off. "Under other circumstances, I'd be studying genetics, the passing on of characteristics from one generation to the next. In plants, though, not people. But there is little time for such things now."

Groll nodded, he knew exactly what Tensor meant. So much of life was passing by while people were fighting the scourge. Groll would never get to settle down with Shantille and his son. But he would have them, and he would have a better reason now to live, and to fight, and to preserve the future of this world and his children and grandchildren.

His mind wandered then, turning to the idea of raising children with his wife. Would she want more than one? "Elves don't have many children, do they?"

"Well, we don't really like to have children, if the truth were told. They do rather get in the way. Our women's gestation periods are long, as well, typically. But there's really no biological reason they can't have children, just that someone has to raise them, you know?" Tensor chuckled. "And I sure don't want to. If I got to split my attention between war and something else, I'd cross-breed plants."

He seemed oblivious to the crossbreeding reference, continuing on with his discussion of his love for plants. But Groll was left with new questions; questions about what kind of family he could have, questions about what his life would be like… and wondering if he would even have a family at all.

The fears and concerns melded together in his mind, blurring his concentration on the more important questions of who, why, and where. Finally, trying to shake the cobwebs from his thinking, he extricated himself from discussions of plants. Riding up to Morgor, he discussed his concerns at length, the other three men all equally as confused and concerned as he was. By the time they rejoined the garrison, Groll felt no more enlightened than before, but had a lot more questions.

Pragmatically, Saurfang simply said, "I guess we wait to see what Ruuna has to say."


	9. Chapter 9

Part 9

"You stink of demons and death, orc," the woman said, her sightless eyes staring at him. "You carry the taint of one who has killed too many times and lived too little."

Groll blinked. What could he say to this? It was certainly true. "I—"

"Every day," she said, anger flashing across her face, "men come to me, seeking their great destiny, their grand purpose." Her face softened, and became very sad. "They think only of the glory, the grandness, of a great destiny. But you, you could tell them of the suffering of a great destiny, couldn't you, orc.

"What do you want from me?" she continued.

Groll sighed, wondering where to begin, what to ask first.

"We must find out where the woman is," Saurfang said.

The sightless eyes turned to Saurfang, eerily accurate as they pinpointed his exact location. "I cannot See her. She is hidden to me. I can only tell you that she lives."

Groll felt the low, desperate growl rumble out of him before he could stop it. "Can you tell us, then, what Goddess is speaking to me and why?"

Ruuna the Seer leaned towards him, and closed her eyes. She sniffed at him, as if to catch the thread of a distant scent. Her face thoughtful, she leaned back again. "I will help you. Sit down."

Groll, Morgor, Modaire, Saurfang, and Tensor sat down on the cold, hard ground, as she also lowered herself gracefully to the ground. She handed him a pipe, and lit it as he puffed slightly on it. She grinned then, looking suddenly wild, feral, and sinister. "Hold on, orc, it's a wild ride."

Groll felt reality slipping away from him. It shimmered and shifted, then swirled into blackness. He realized he was falling, and he wasn't afraid. Falling into a void of darkness. It was fitting that this should be, as he must be falling into the pit of his own soul. But then he saw light. It was a strange, watery, silvery light. It approached slowly at first, until suddenly it seemed to seize him and drag him into it. Instantly, he was in some other world, a gray, dismal place devoid of color.

But not devoid of life. Dark shapes undulated amidst the ruins; and trolls, colorless, blind, and naked, walked like ghosts. Aimlessly they ambled around, none of them noticing him. He began to walk forward along the ruins, until suddenly some unknown force once more seized him. He felt himself lifted, and he was flying through the air, looking down helplessly as the ruins flashed past.

Seconds later, he stood before the strangest entity he'd ever seen. Even here, in this lifeless, dark domain, she was colorful. But her colors were muted, saturated with gray tones. She stared at him, rage flashing in her birdlike eyes. "Quetz'lun," he said, recognizing her only from what he had heard from others.

When she spoke, her voice was high, sharp, yet breathy. It was both alluring, and grating. "Yes, Quetz'lun. Whom you have ignored, to your own peril." She suddenly reared back, "Are you a fool, mortal?" she was shouting now, yet it seemed her voice was for the two of them alone, as if the grayness that surrounded them swallowed it up. "I have repeatedly tried to warn you, using up considerable power in order to do so, and you have fully ignored me every time!"

Her face suddenly seemed to appear inches from his face, "You let them take her, you fool. Why did you not stay in Vengeance Landing with her, where it was safe?" She was practically snarling now.

Perversely, Groll thought to himself, _This is a very strange way to treat someone you're helping_.

The Goddess snarled, obviously reading his mind, "I help you for my own reasons. I help you because at this moment, our desires converge. Make no mistake; if I did not require you to live and get your wife away from my followers, I would ignore your useless posturing as I do all who do not follow my ways.

"But at this time, I have need of you. My Prophet cannot be allowed to ally himself with the Scourge. If this happens, he will be free to leave my temple, and will even be able to enter this, the realm of the dead, to take the powers that remain to me- limited as they are. Only my curse keeps him contained here. The Scourge, with your wife's power, can break that curse.

"This cannot be allowed to happen." She withdrew from him, and began to pace back and forth. "You must visit Har'koa. She can assist you in getting into my realm. When you arrive here, you must bring sacrifices. Those of my few followers who remain in your world, and those followers of Slad'Ran who assist them, will be more than suitable." What could only be considered a vicious, bloodthirsty grin crossed her face. "Yes, most suitable. They must pay the price for their perfidy. You will teach them what it means to betray their God, won't you, mortal.

"Go now, before the woman's strength is gone. Har'koa will help you enter my realm, and then I will grant you and your friends the Power it will take to stand against my Prophet. It is long past time that he paid for his betrayal."

A single wing wave, and he fell back into darkness, the watery light vanishing from his vision rapidly. He felt a sudden tugging motion, and opened his eyes. Immediately, a piercing agony stabbed into his skull, and he grunted and clapped his eyes shut.

"Easy there, man, carefully now. Smoking isn't for you, it would seem- you passed out." Morgor's voice was familiar, comforting, and calming. Groll was back to reality, to solid and real life. Slowly, when the pain eased, he sat up.

"How long was I out?" he hoped it wasn't as long as it seemed.

"It takes only a moment to travel as you did," said the soft voice of Ruuna the Seer. "Have you the information you sought?"

Groll nodded, wincing again as he held his aching head. Haltingly, he told the others what had been said. They all sat in silence for a time, digesting the strange encounter.

"Let's go, then," Saurfang said at last. "We have far to go, and no idea how much time we have left to travel it.

They stood to leave, and Groll turned back to Ruuna. Unlacing the fur-lined cloak he was wearing, he walked back and put it around her slender shoulders. As he turned to leave, Ruuna said, "You're getting better at this, Groll." He grinned and clomped back to his worg.

As they rode, they discussed what was revealed in the vision. "I don't think we should trust someone who has openly stated that she's just using us for her own ends," Morgor told Saurfang when asked his thoughts.

Tensor added, "What if she's just luring us into the Otherworld in order to trap us there and kill us?"

To which, Modaire asked, "Wouldn't she have trapped Groll there already?"

"No," Groll said, "I wasn't there in the physical, only through some sort of telepathic communication facilitated by Ruuna."

"Well then, Groll," Saurfang asked, "what do you think we should do?"

Groll pondered for a time, rolling the alternatives through his mind. "I don't want to do it, because it's going to take time. I fear that we might be off doing this while Shantille is being Turned.

"On the other hand, if we can't even kill the one holding her without the Powers the Goddess offers; we will all be dead, plus we will have doomed Shantille for certain because we didn't comply." He pondered a moment longer, "I'm inclined to believe that this is what we need to do, for several reasons. She tried to get me to stay in Vengeance Landing. If I had listened and done so, she would be getting no sacrifices.

"Furthermore, it seems that she has as many reasons to be worried as we do, and while I'm not interested in trusting her even in the slightest, I think so long as our desires are the same as hers, she will help as much as she can. She's clearly strongly interested in getting revenge on her Prophet. Like Slad'Ran, her prophet stole her Power, also. The only difference is that she countered and went to the Otherworld instead of dying completely. She also managed to corral him to her temple. The only thing she lacks is revenge.

"For her, that's where we come in, now that she wasn't able to prevent Shantille from being taken anymore than I was."

They rode in silence for a while, until finally Saurfang nodded. "I agree with you, Groll, though I think the others bring up valid points that we absolutely must keep strong in our minds. The possibility of a double-cross isn't distant at all, it's very present and pervasive."

At this, everyone nodded. There was no question that danger was all around them, and the source of it currently unknown with any degree of certainty. But time was short; this knowledge seemed to be the one thing they were all completely certain of. So, in the absence of other ideas, they chose to pursue the only one given to them.

Returning to the contingent of soldiers, they headed straight for Zul Drak. At the border there, they skirmished briefly with some trolls, the land there infested with them. At Saurfang's command, they took several of them captive, a total of six. Two of them, Saurfang, Morgor, and Groll took aside and interrogated. At first simply with questions, then brutally. Finally, Saurfang was convinced that they knew nothing. The prisoners were Healed and put back with their compatriots, unaware that they had been Healed only for the purpose of living long enough to be sacrifices themselves.

None of the company felt the least bit of remorse at this fact. The trolls had attacked them with every intention of killing and eating them. Hanging from the fetishes around their camp, and even from a couple of belts were the skulls of children who had been given that self-same treatment. The only regret that any of them felt was that it would be dishonorable to repeatedly torture and Heal them. The nature of their crimes was so heinous that it was difficult to even be near them. In particular, it was difficult for those among them who had children to fight off the desire to punish them brutally for their vicious and horrific crimes against children.

Moving on into Zul Drak, the contingent of soldiers felt the immediate difference in the atmosphere. A cold, pallid place, it seemed as if the sun never shined there, though you could see its orb hanging bleakly in the barren, cold sky. It was as if the land itself, marked by unknown horrors and evils throughout the centuries, shunned and rejected brilliance and light.

It was also unnaturally quiet, what wildlife there once might have been having learned long ago to be quiet and still at all times. Never, for even a moment, were they at peace. Here, in this dark, gray place, everything was perpetually either hunter or hunted. Quiet and peaceful grazing may once have been a way of life here, but now there was only bleak hunger and wretched cold.

As they were climbing the cold stone stairs that crumbled between Grizzly Hills and Zul Drak, an elven couple wearing the tabards of Explorers met them. They introduced themselves as Loremaster Kenna and Loremaster Danelle. They had been dispatched, they informed High Overlord Saurfang, to assist with any knowledge that they possessed that he might need.

Riding along, the couple told the full story of the betrayal of the Gods and Goddesses in this land by their Prophets, and how the in fighting amongst the prophets generally prevented any sort of unity between them. They exchanged worried glances when told what the Goddess Quetz'lun had said about the agreement between her Prophet and Slad'Ran.

Kenna, looking deeply disturbed by the news, simply said, "This is utterly unprecedented." Danelle nodded.

Groll watched them, seeing the easy way they seemed to communicate without words at times. Sometimes they completed one another's sentences, or said part of a sentence before the other nodded. He felt a painful wrench as he thought that they must have been together for a very long time to have that kind of partnership. He found himself scowling as he watched them, and realized that, in the mind of elves, he was probably being alarmingly rude.

Gruffly, trying to keep himself from snapping waspishly, he grunted to Saurfang that he was going to check on the prisoners. Saurfang nodded absently, returning to the discussion with the two Loremasters.

Groll fell back, dutifully checking the prisoners as he said he was going to do.

For the rest of the evening, until they camped, he was lost deeply in thought. He considered every angle of the situation, and at last concluded that, while far from being a pleasant idea, the choice they'd made was most likely the best one available. He remained disturbed by the idea of a double-cross on the part of the Goddess Quetz'lun, however.

That night the contingent of soldiers and prisoners (and now Loremasters, too) camped at the intersection where tomorrow they would turn and head northeast. Groll desperately wanted to head overland, but with such a large and ponderous group, they were forced to stick to the road. The unfortunate part of this was that it left them open to ambush. The fortunate part was that it made for swift travel.

Extra sentries were set up that night, the group weary but stressed and on edge. Here, there lurked not only the trolls, but also the scourge. For all that the majority of the scourge was mindless and operated within a narrow limit of behavior, the upper echelons of their ranks were filled with intelligent, and even cunning creatures. This was no time to let down their guard, if anything; in this place it was imperative that they heighten both security and alertness.

So Groll found himself on watch duty in the wee hours before dawn. He had fully recovered from the near death experience earlier, and so felt physically quite hearty. He was eager to get on with the journey, though. He felt an overwhelming impatience, finding both sleep and waking hours to be unbearably difficult. Time crept onwards through the morning hours, and he tried to stay still.

He found his mind inevitably returning to thoughts of Shantille. He realized how short a time he had known her, literally a matter of days. But oddly, he also found that he couldn't even remember how he had spent the days before she came into his life. What had he thought about then? What were the nights like then? It felt oddly surreal to realize that he didn't know, couldn't remember.

Then his mind ranged back over the sexual encounters he'd had all his life. He began to recognize that they'd been all the same. A steady march of rough, inelegant encounters committed with various women. Women with mostly forgotten faces and solidarity of behavior that confounded him. They all treated sex the same way, as a sort of sport, where orgasm was the goal and where they were single players borrowing the body of another. It was no wonder that he'd not fallen in love with any of them.

But even with that thought in mind, he realized that it was simply the way things were in orc society. No one meant any harm in it, they'd simply never thought of a different way. Pleasing one's self was one's own business, an activity that sometimes required the participation of another.

This, however, was not the case in elven society, it was considered the height of rudeness to leave a partner dissatisfied, and this fact was often exploited by lovers to gain sexual favors the other may be reluctant to offer up. In orc society, if one was reluctant, one simply refused, and if their partner was dissatisfied, they could find someone else to do the desired activity. To force, coerce, or to even attempt to manipulate a sexual partner into anything they were reluctant to do was considered dishonorable. No sex act was considered worth dishonoring one's self.

Except, of course, Groll's foray into ignoring the feeble objections of a certain beautiful, tender elf. He considered at great length why he had been able to even commit such an act. Heat of the moment, perhaps. He had excused it to himself and to her as a cultural misunderstanding, but he recognized the fact that his sense of honor should have prevented him from pushing it when she resisted- however minor the resistance.

He sighed and let the issue drop from his mind. He couldn't change it, she had forgiven him, and his closest friend had forgiven him, and all in all the resulting dishonor seemed to live on only in his own mind. Indeed, the final result had been the as-yet unofficial lifting of an age-old ban on fraternization with other races. He was keenly aware that the social ban on it would likely remain for many, many years to come. Possibly for decades to come. One might be exiled, but at least death was no longer an official penalty. He could only hope that he could protect Shantille from the retribution of the elves. So far as he knew, their penalty remained in effect.

Shifting uncomfortably against the tree he was leaning on, Groll sighed. It was going to be a long day today.

He returned to sentry duty, determined to allow no more thoughts of Shantille to intrude. He was successful, somewhat, for the whole day's march. But when evening the next day came, as they approached the small outpost of Zim'Torga, he lost the battle for his mind, and Shantille once more won it.

They camped near Zim'Torga that night, and because the night was so unaccountably frigid, they dug in and laid down tents. Groll kept his own tent, which could sleep two, but even Morgor had begun to shun his company at night. Nightmares made Groll a restless and difficult sleeper, lashing out at unseen trolls throughout the night.

So it was that Groll found himself alone in his two-man tent, with only a small brazier of coals, set far back in hopes he wouldn't knock it over, to keep him company. Tonight he would have no sentry duty, only sleep. Sleep, however, eluded him. He wondered where she was, and how she fared. Was she huddling, starving and shivering in a cage? Was she chained and following behind someone who looked at her as food?

He dreamt again, lashing out at the trolls that were trying to eat his wife and son. But then the dream changed, and he was standing at the edge of a pond in the Barrens. It was as if he had a chance to do it all again. He walked into the water, feeling it caressing his naked calves. She looked up at him, enticing and lovely in the cool waters. He smiled at her, trying to look suave, and she giggled.

Giving up suave then, he jumped into the water, covering the distance between them with a single, powerful stroke. Rising from the water in front of her, he let the water slough off of his body. He rose to his full height- the stance that he generally preferred, unlike most orcs, and looked down at her. Once more, he watched the water splash around her breasts, his attention fastened there.

This time, he reached out and caressed one, lifting her up in the water while he lowered himself somewhat. He licked the moisture from one while his hand kneaded and rubbed at the other. Looking up at her, he found her eyes aquamarine in her desire, half-closed and watching him. Her hand tangled in his hair, pulling him close again. He returned to licking small circles around the nipple.

Pulling back, he looked at her pert, pink nipple, tightened and standing up to receive his tongue's attention. He lifted one leg and braced it against the stone she was in front of, slipping it between her legs so that she was straddling it. He was now in a perfect position to kiss her, and kiss her, he did.

With one hand, he pulled her close, the other coming between them only so that it could take over caressing and teasing the nipple his mouth had just abandoned. He felt his penis bumping against her hip, their bodies slick and wet from being in the water. He found the remembered feeling translated well into his dream. Her body, slippery yet still soft and pliant, bumped against his with the motion of the water. He became more and more aroused, the more she pressed against him, touching and retreating, touching and retreating.

He was startled when she reached down and took his penis in her hand, sliding easily up and down the length of him, gently running a finger in a circle, following the foreskin. They continued kissing, though Groll drew in a deep, sharp breath at her touch. Her hand slipped up and down, holding him against her thigh and hip, and using that to press against him. He growled in pleasure, deeply content to feel her hands on him again.

Pulling back from her, he looked into her eyes, still colored with her desire for him. "I love you, and I want to make love to you, here and now. I want to create our son today."

She smiled at him, running her hand along his scruffy jaw line in a familiar gesture, "Are you sure?"

He nodded, "What about you, are you sure?" At her emphatic nod, he pulled her against him and once more buried his face in her dusty, sweaty neck. "Deities, Shantille, I need you here with me, more than you will ever know. Nothing will ever be the same without you!"

Pulling back, he slipped his hand down between her legs, his finger carefully seeking the nub of her clitoris. As he found it, he watched her arch and curve against him, panting with unbridled lust. Sliding his finger up and down, he flickered it and pressed, sometimes gently and sometimes firmly. Soon, he felt the twitching of her hips and heard her breathing increase in speed. She was close, but he wasn't ready.

He watched the water play over her heaving breasts for a moment before stopping. With her close to orgasm, he thrust into her, to feel her go over the edge and her vaginal walls begin to throb against him. He grinned, satisfied with the power he had to send her over the edge simply by entering her. He held her still, feeling her body jerk while her vaginal muscles tried to milk him, flexing and tightening in surges.

When she subsided, he began to thrust into her, matching once more the rhythm of the water. In and out in slow, steady, long thrusts. Watching the whole time as the water sloshed around her lovely breasts, teasing the nipples into tight attention. He enjoyed also the slippery feel of her legs, as far around him as she could reach.

Finally, he felt himself panting with desire, as well. His scrotum drew up, tightening around the testicles in anticipation of his release into his wife. When he came, it was powerfully intense, accompanied by the wave of her second orgasm. Loosing his seed into her, he howled with both lust and triumph. She was his, and his alone.

Unfortunately, his own howl awakened him, and he found he had released for sure; into his breeches instead of his wife, though. With a sigh, he cleaned up, displaying no discomfort in the frigid cold. He hadn't done that since he was a kid, and he felt a mixture of embarrassment and amusement.

Yes, she had changed more than he would ever tell her about, that much was for sure.

Groll had just replaced his underclothing and reached for his breeches again when he heard it, "Trolls! Trolls from the south!"

Galvanized, Groll snarled- caught with his pants down- literally speaking. He rushed to get dressed, buckling his armor on even as he rushed out of the tent. He ignored curious looks and kept going, his sword and shield leaping to his hands in a gesture perfected through decades of fighting.

Racing towards Zim'Torga was a small group of trolls. They carried the banner of Zim'Torga, though saying they were flying it would have been too generous. They had the bedraggled, exhausted look of a full-out rout. Their raptors were straining for breath, and as they approached, Groll could hear them wheezing and grunting with exhaustion. Had they been warm-blooded mounts, they would have been sweating to the point of frothing, but as it was, they seemed several shades grayer than usual. Yet even they, as if they understood the stakes as well as their riders, were running flat out, some of them even stretched low to the ground, as if to capture more velocity in such a manner.

The clear terror on the faces of their riders chilled the group of veteran Horde soldiers, Groll included. Saurfang rushed forward, and the group of trolls veered from their path towards Zim'Torga upon seeing the large encampment of soldiers. "Hep, mon, dey be after us!" shrieked the leading troll as the group barreled into the encampment. No sooner did he say it than more trolls burst through the tree line beyond them.

Immediately, the contingent of soldiers formed up. They lined up in loose but effective formation. Groll and Saurfang, the last to do so, leaped onto their mounts, and Saurfang motioned Groll to him at the head of the contingent. High Overlord Saurfang bellowed to the soldiers with him, and in warning to the approaching trolls, "For the Horde!"

Behind them, with Groll's voice joined in, rose the great shout that despite the chill of the land and the threat of battle rang clearly and resonantly across the land, "For the Horde!" With the sound of that shout ringing in their ears, eager mounts and soldiers alike leaped forward, leaving only a huddle of terrified Zim'Torga trolls in their wake amongst the tents and tackle of the encampment.

Rushing across the clear ground that separated them from their quarry, the three garrisons of Horde veterans drew weapons, eager to spill the blood of those who had brought them to this deities-forsaken, frigid hellhole in the freezing lands of Northrend. Now, their own mounts rushed forward, muzzles leading the way, as if straining desperately to enjoin the battle.

Groll and Saurfang struck first, and Groll felt an unaccustomed, deeper, more powerful thrill as Blood Drinker sank viciously into the leather armor of the nearest troll. With a howl the troll swung a dagger towards Groll's head. Groll laughed, a maniacal, cruel sound. He brought the shield up into the exposed midsection of the troll, and then leaped off of his mount and onto the troll's, dragging the other man to the ground.

In a single motion, he was standing again, and looking down at the troll on the ground. He threw his head back and let the newfound thrill join the rage in him, and felt the concussive power of it whip out away from him in all directions. Trolls stopped, blinking blearily in the wake of it. The wave passed harmlessly against the others of his own contingent, thanks to their unconscious attunement to one another.

And so the battle was joined, with Groll and Saurfang soon joined by Morgor, with Tensor there, brilliant flashes of holy magic spilling from his hands to Heal and soothe. Modaire's magical barrages were once more a constant companion, as well.

Groll found himself fighting with a new sort of frenzy. These beasts, these monsters, these vermin had helped those who took his wife and child. Whether they were to blame directly or not mattered not at all. They had their part to play in the perfidy, and so they would pay the price of the part they'd played.

With each troll that he felled, Groll felt a renewed satisfaction. As Blood Drinker sang through the air, as eager as he, and sliced cleanly through first the troll's tusk, then the top of his head, and on through the other tusk, Groll snarled at the empty eyes of the troll, "That's for every man whose son you butchered and ate."

Shortly thereafter, Blood Drinker ran deeply into the abdomen of another troll, who stood stupidly trying to hold her spilling intestines. Groll threw his head back and roared, filled with a brutal, harsh sense of delight. At the top of his lungs, staring into her eyes now, he roared, "And that's for my wife, you bitch!" Blood Drinker cut another swath through the air, and decapitated her, and the same maniacal laugh escaped him.

He stepped forward towards another troll, who looked at Groll, and seemed to think better of attacking him. Turning, he fled towards the woods. Groll felt a sudden unspeakable fury wash over him. This monster dared try to escape the righteous judgment he faced due to his own dishonorable acts? Channeling his fury to his legs, Groll leaped after the fleeing troll with unnatural speed and agility. Slamming into the troll, shield first, he literally knocked the troll into a nearby tree.

As Blood Drinker sang, screaming for more blood, and as his blood stirred with the ancient and horrifying song of demon blood, Groll lifted his hand for the final blow. Only to find his blow parried with a force that sent shockwaves up his arm and into his shoulder. With a snarl of unbridled, towering rage, he turned upon the perpetrator with a frenzied fury.

He drew up instantly short as he faced the impassive face of High Overlord Saurfang. Groll blinked in surprise, "wha—?"

Saurfang reminded him sternly, "We must have captives." As Groll snarled and drew up in outrage, Saurfang calmly spoke again. "Groll, we must have captives. For the sake of your wife and son, you must let this one live… for now."

Groll stood trying to get himself under control. His massive chest rose and fell, heaving in his inner struggle to stop the urge to kill long enough to let the wisdom of the High Overlord seep into him. At last, he passed an inner threshold and nodded.

"Take them," Saurfang said, and Groll winced. He wondered if he would ever hear those words again without the memory of the last time hitting him.

As Groll turned to return to camp, he was shocked to see the gathered soldiers staring at him with a mixture of awe, abhorrence, and in some cases, outright fear. Heaving a sigh, he went towards the encampment. He was tired, sweaty despite the cold, and covered in blood. Some of it even his.

He sat down and began to methodically clean his armor. Before long, Saurfang sat down beside him, and also began to clean his.

"You were a great warrior before, Groll. But now that you are finally beginning to understand it all, your prowess may well reach legendary." Groll stared at Saurfang in surprise.

"Understand what?" Groll asked.

"Groll," Saurfang said, "Like all orcs, you've always enjoyed battle. But you've never really understood what you were fighting for. You never really realized that, perversely, the ultimate goal of all of our battles, is peace."

Groll grunted, "We don't need peace, without battle we'll grow old and die, doddering old men with no honor or glory."

Saurfang laughed, "Oh, Groll, stop posturing. Any man with a jot of good sense wants peace, and you should know that now as much as any man."

Groll scowled at Saurfang, "Is that true, you want peace?"

Saurfang looked at Groll pensively for a moment. "Let me ask you something, Groll. Would you rather be fighting for your wife's life right now, or rolling around in bed with her?"

Groll didn't even have to consider that one; "I'd rather be rolling in bed with her, of course." He grinned, that was absolutely true.

Saurfang nodded. "Do you think I'd rather be avenging my son today, still mourning my own wife, or dandling my grandson on my knee?"

Groll swallowed, staring at Saurfang, whose son had recently been killed by the scourge. Weakly, without conviction, he said, "You could get remarried, couldn't you?"

Saurfang looked at him like he was daft. "Why don't you give up this pursuit of Shantille and find some other elf to marry?"

Groll felt the muscles in his shoulders seize up. Powerful sinews raised on them, as he strained to restrain the fury that this idea invoked in him. "I don't want another elf, I want my wife," he barked.

Then he blinked. He stared at Saurfang. "I'm sorry. You're right. That was a stupid question."

Saurfang nodded, and seemed to dismiss it. "Not all orcs mate, many of us simply enjoy physical encounters and go on about our lives. But those of us who do mate, often do so for life. And whether our wives and children survive or don't, they are the greatest incentive in our lives to do battle. But not for the sake of battle, Groll. For the hope of peace.

"The only men who don't want peace are the war profiteers. And this fact is why no one respects them but their own kind.

"It's our great capacity for love that makes us the best in battle. When a man loves, he'll fight, live, or die for those he loves.

"You've lived a long life, longer than any other orc alive today. In all that long life, you've fought more battles than anyone else. But you've never, until today, fought for love. Even for the memory of love. Today, you killed more than anyone else here. Because on this day, you fought for something even greater than honor and glory." Saurfang put his armor down. "This is the secret of the orcs. This is the greatness that we carry, and always have.

"The humans never understood what they were doing when they sold our families like livestock. They never understood the fury they unleashed by enslaving us and killing our families and our children and wives. They used our families to bend us to their will- the only thing that could do it. Thus when we became free, they couldn't understand why the first thing we did was to kill their families, their wives, their children. Because they did it to us."

Saurfang looked sad, his dark brown face washed in sorrow. "We tried to forgive them. We tried to let what retribution we've gained be enough for the many centuries more of suffering that they visited upon us. But they refuse to acknowledge the fact that their own dishonorable acts brought about our judgment. And once more, we are war with them. They at our front, the scourge nipping at our heels. Those who lack honor, glory, or even basic dignity besiege us.

"I'm tired of war. I'm far younger than you, but I've lost much to these endless wars. I would wish for you that, at least for a time, you might know peace." He clapped his heavy hand on Groll's shoulder. "But until then, I welcome a fighter of your skill at my side."

He reached out to Groll in a handshake, and Groll was stunned to see that it was the left hand… the greatest honor from one orc to another. He grasped the offered hand with a lump in his throat.

As Saurfang clomped away, Groll pondered the words of the High Overlord of Northrend. Love is what we're fighting for. Love, peace, and freedom, Groll thought. He realized immediately that Saurfang was right. At last, he understood. At last he realized why Shantille loved him, and why he'd never managed to push himself into being as good a fighter as Saurfang. Because Saurfang was fighting for something real. And until now, Groll had not been.

All he had to do to understand why Saurfang fought now was wonder what he would do if Shantille were dead when they got to her. He would spend the rest of his life, to the moment of his death, wiping the ones responsible- directly or indirectly—off of the face of Azeroth.

No one was irreparably injured during the battle, and although it took some time, the healers managed to get everyone back into reasonably comfortable shape. Groll and Saurfang spoke at length to the trolls from Zim'Torga, finding out little that was of help. The followers of Slad'Ran, the Zim'Torga trolls said, had grown more aggressive over the last few months, until now they could only leave their outpost in large groups. Today's attack had been the most aggressive.

When asked how they knew who followed whom, they shrugged; it was simply something everyone knew. Both Groll and Saurfang found this to be extraordinarily annoying. If everyone knew it, Saurfang pointed out quite reasonably, they'd know it, too. The trolls were unmoved by this logic, simply stating that they knew, and weren't sure how they knew.

As soon as Groll asked the fastest and most efficient route to the temple of Har'koa, they became immediately defensive and suspicious. However, once Groll explained why they were seeking the temple, the trolls became not only cooperative, but nearly obsequious. They beseeched the two orcs to free Har'koa if it was at all possible, as they had been trying to no avail. They lacked the numbers for a frontal assault, but desperately wanted the Goddess they remained faithful to freed.

The trolls of Zim'Torga helped restock the contingent to the best of their ability, sending them off with hope in their eager, weary faces. Groll felt certain that, if they were able to, they would help free Har'koa.

They left the small outpost, moving deeper into foreign, cold land. The trees now loomed closer, and the majority of the wildlife they saw were big cats, staring malevolently at them from bushes or from behind trees. The occasional troll that they encountered gave them a wide berth. Apparently, their reputation preceded them. Groll grinned at the thought.

Thanks to the morning battle, it was late afternoon before they reached Har'koa's temple. This time, the skirmish in front of it was brief, brutal, and efficient. It seemed that either those followers of Har'koa who had betrayed her were few, or they'd sent the bulk of their forces elsewhere. For the trolls of Zim'Torga, relatively few in number, it would have been a pitched battle. For the Horde contingent, it was easy pickings.

As they fought, they heard and saw the mighty Goddess roaring in her restraints. It was as if she sensed freedom at her very doorstep. Just as the battle at the bottom of the steps concluded, a head, attached to what remained of a shoulder, rolled sloppily down the steps, the troll staring blankly with a look of surprised terror. A roar followed, settling to the cold stone steps with the blood that trickled wetly from the decapitated head-shoulder combination.

With some degree of trepidation, Saurfang, Groll, Morgor, Modaire, and Tensor slowly climbed up the steps. When they topped it, they skirmished again briefly with those few trolls who had attempted to barricade themselves there.

Her voice rumbling, Har'koa asked them, "Who are you? Why do you come before me? How dare you violate my sanctuary?"

Groll looked up at the massive cat, her eyes glowing at him with an uncanny blue light. Her perfect white pelt was spotted with gray, and he thought she was a truly stately, magnificent beast. He stepped forward, realizing that he, as the one most in need of petitioning her, must be the one to explain. "Mighty Goddess," he began, "we had no intention of violating your temple. We were attacked on our way to beseech your assistance, and merely defended ourselves. I think that is little different from your own response to those who have truly defiled this sacred place." He stood looking at her, not belligerently, but not as a subordinate, either.

She considered him for a moment, then stretched, shaking her head. "It has been long since I was visited by those without an intent to murder me. I suppose I have rather forgotten my manners. Speak, mortal, and I will consider your petition."

Groll went on to explain all that had happened, including the vision in which he visited Quetz'lun. At this news, Har'koa hissed, "I had feared as much. So she is dead, and wants my assistance in ridding her temple of the defiler who betrayed her. I cannot say no to this request- it is simple enough.

"However, there is one issue which must be addressed," Har'koa said. "Before the betrayal, I had a scroll that could help you. With that scroll intact, I could send you all into the Otherworld for a short time. But I will need power, and I will need the pieces of that scroll located. My loyal followers separated the pieces, hiding them here. If you can find them, I can help you."

Clearly frustrated, Saurfang sent the entire contingent searching through the ruins. Little did they know but, as they worked, they also gathered up various other scrolls. Every bit of scroll was meticulously brought to the two Loremasters, who poured over them together with Har'koa. Once, they shouted with excitement, only to be told that it was the wrong scroll.

Hours later, the whole contingent discouraged and worried, Saurfang called a halt to the search. They would begin again the next day, but for now, they would camp just inside the ruins. Lanterns were brought, and the Loremasters continued piecing documents together.

Groll took first watch this time, too distressed and concerned to sleep. Time was ticking away, and with every moment, he felt his wife's life slipping away. The chances were getting slimmer and slimmer that she'd still be alive when at last they found her. He was relieved late in the night, and looked up to see a light still shining beside the brilliant gleam of cat eyes.

He climbed the steps, arriving at the makeshift table they were using, and started a fire, noticing Danelle, the woman Loremaster, shivering intermittently. They both looked up and smiled, thanking him, before going back immediately to their work. Har'koa purred, a warm, deep sound. Finding himself surprisingly bold, Groll walked up to her and patted her on one broad, furry shoulder.

"Sit with me, mortal, and we will wait for these to do their difficult work." He sat down, leaning back against her. Soon, the soft rumble sent him into sleep. He slept dreamlessly, until a shout awakened him. "They've found it!" Har'koa said, her voice triumphant, deep, and feline. "Plus, they found another one earlier that will enable me to ensure that you can come and go from the Otherworld at your own will for the duration of the second spell!"


	10. Chapter 10

Part 10

It wasn't long, of course (from Groll's point of view) before they ran into a hitch. They needed something to bind the spell to, else Har'koa would have to cast it immediately, leaving them only five hours to get to the temple of Quetz'lun, enter her domain, sacrifice twelve trolls, and then wait while she cast whatever spell she needed to. It was easily a three-hour trip on foot, and with a large, slow-moving group of people, could easily take longer. No one wanted to take the risk.

At Har'koa's instruction, Groll mounted his green windrider, and winged with all haste to Zim'Torga. There, he sought the Witch Doctor Khufu. Khufu, after some consideration, handed Groll a medallion. Ironically, it was much like the one he'd found in Tanaris on a certain dead troll. This one, however, bore Har'koa's likeness.

When he returned to Har'koa, Groll sensed the tense yet electric atmosphere in the garrisons. Just as he did, they sensed that the hour of reckoning would soon be at hand. He felt a powerful sense of exhilaration as his windrider backwinged to land a bit roughly on the platform near Har'koa. The venerable Goddess purred her appreciation of the medallion choice, and began the incantation that would allow Groll and all attuned to him at this time to enter the world of the Goddess Quetz'lun. Then she intoned the incantation that would allow him to leave and enter at will so long as the initial spell held.

They mounted up, but as they were leaving, Groll asked, "Is there anything we can do for you? Perhaps when we are finished, we can come and release you from these bonds in some way?"

Har'koa looked at him, and said gruffly, though not unkindly, "Others are tasked with freeing me, Groll. There is only one thing that you can do to bring me some degree of peace. On your way out of my territory, release every one of my children that you see. Send their spirits to me so that I may send them on to the joyous afterlife."

He nodded, finding himself feeling a deep affinity to this Goddess. If his own offspring were to be cursed by the Scourge, he too would want someone to set them free of such an horrific destiny. He could no more refuse to help her in this way than he could have given up the task of seeking his own wife and child. He saluted her, and she dipped in what could only be considered a bow.

The contingent moved out, and true to Groll's word to the Goddess, without regard to it slowing them down some, they released the bound and cursed souls of her children. Each turned and bowed to his or her redeemer before racing to their mother to be sent on to a peaceful afterlife.

The morning wore on as they traveled, trying to keep the stragglers up with the group. The entire time, Groll and Saurfang expected to be ambushed or even openly attacked at any moment. Strangely, they were able to continue on their path, entirely unmolested, until they stood before a shimmering gateway. This marked the passage into the ruins of Quetz'lun. Entering it without activating the medallion would take them to the ruins as they were in this world. Triggering the medallion would take them into the ruins as they were in the Otherworld.

At Saurfang's signal, Groll took a deep breath, and triggered the medallion.

They stepped through the shimmering portal, the soldiers and Loremasters following apprehensively, the trolls dragged entirely unwillingly. This time, though, Groll was not only there in spirit, he was there in the flesh—as were they all. Because of that, unlike last time, they gained the most undesirable attention of the denizens of this place. Apparitions of trolls and serpentine, birdlike creatures immediately beset them.

Once more, however, the contingent outnumbered their attackers, but found that they were persistent and quite resilient. The fights were long, Saurfang often standing face to face with several apparitions while Groll held the attention of several more. The healers worked hard to keep them in peak condition as the apparitions sought to eviscerate them. Primarily, Groll was surprised to find that the generally quiet, even taciturn Tensor was the most active in healing him. It seemed that even the slightest blow or cut was immediately answered with a Heal.

They fought their way to the dais that Groll remembered from his vision walk. When they arrived, they found Quetz'lun waiting for them. "You must hurry," she said, "they are nearly ready!"

Groll felt an unaccustomed excitement run through him, a frisson of hope. "She's here? She's at the temple?"

"Yes," responded Quetz'lun, "she is there, and they will begin their work on her soon. You must hurry, the sacrifices must be made swiftly."

Saurfang immediately swept into motion, Groll behind him. Methodically, swiftly, they dragged trolls to the gray, burning brazier. There, one by one, their throats were slit. Not entirely unmoved by their pathetic cries and screams, Groll needed only see the skulls of their past dinners hanging from their belts to harden his resolve.

Finally, the deed was done. They turned back to Quetz'lun, to see her glowing with her full colors now. She seemed to grow, expand, and enlarge. Then she laughed, more a sharp cackle than anything.

"Prepare yourselves, mortals, the time for my revenge is at hand, and I will not be denied!" She chanted for a moment, and suddenly, Groll felt her blessing wash over him. His suddenly felt invincible. His muscles moved with incredible power. He was agile, swift, powerful, and wholly endowed with a deep sense of health and vitality.

"You will need every ounce of fortitude you possess to pass this test. My Prophet will seek to devour you, and thus steal more of my Power. If you allow him to do so, all will be lost, for all of us.

"Do not fail me, mortals." Suddenly, as she spoke this last, they were thrust from her domain, finding themselves disoriented for a moment. Then they were all, including the entire garrison, standing outside the gate once more. This time, Groll did not activate the medallion, and they passed through the misty gray that swirled in the gateway, firmly rooted in physical reality.

The fight towards the altar was hectic and more difficult than they expected, though their attackers were fewer than they had been in the Otherworld. But at long last, they reached the final tier before ascending to the altar area, where they'd been told Shantille was being held for the ritual that would Turn her.

They took only a moment to regroup, until all were in readiness for the battle ahead. A battle that would determine the final outcome of not only one woman's life, but possibly the entire future of all Azeroth—Horde and Alliance alike. In a moment, they would cross a threshold from which some, or more terrifyingly- all, might never return.

At last, they gathered up, this time into a closer, tighter formation. Saurfang raised his mighty fist into the air, "For the Horde!"

The shout was echoed by all there, ringing clearly through the ruins, "For the Horde! Honor and Glory!"

As one being, the contingent rushed up the stairs and burst onto the bottom of the dais. Groll took in the scene there in an instant. Finally, he could once more see his beautiful wife. She lay spread-eagled with her robe unlaced and open at her chest to expose her heart, strapped down on a stone altar, apparently unconscious. Beside her, a Scourge apothecary with a scalpel stood hunched over the body of an Abomination, a surprised look on his pallid face. Gormalla stood to the right of the skeletal, serpentine and birdlike hulk of the Prophet. Surrounding them was a host of trolls, Groll couldn't even begin to imagine. Leveled at the intruders, were numerous bows held by Hunters, whose catlike, twisted beasts lay panting at their feet.

Directly behind the Prophet was a stone dais, covered in corpses. Clearly some sort of sacrifice had taken place there short moments ago. This should have been a warning to them, but without knowledge of what sort of magic had been wrought, there was little they could do but take the risk.

Groll and Saurfang lifted their weapons, and rushed forward with a roar. As one body, the garrisons behind them surged upwards, as well. The Prophet simply laughed, and raised one skeletal wing. With a single incantation, the entire group was trapped in freezing ice. Groll felt the sudden, terrible cold settle deeply into him, and felt both a fleeting relief, and a powerful agony, when he realized he could no longer see his unconscious wife beyond the dais behind the prophet.

Undaunted, he activated his trinket, tucked neatly into its spot where it could touch his skin and be privy to the thought that would activate it. Sudden terror gripped him as it utterly failed to set him free. His worst nightmare, the one that had haunted him nightly since Camp Tuarjaro had come true. He was entombed in ice and about to watch his wife die. Granted, in the dreams, he could always see her, but the effect, and the horror, was the same.

"Do you think I am a fool? I antisssipated your trinket after the lassst time," the Prophet hissed. "Ssso thisss time, I sssacrificed many to create the ssspell that will hold you until we hasss killed you all." The Prophet cackled, his sepulchral, skeletal body undulating obscenely.

"The woman wissshesss to tell you what ssshall become of the elf," the Prophet said. "Go ahead, woman, tell themsss."

Gormalla slinked forward, a smug sneer on her face. She walked slowly down the steps towards Groll. "They are going to take out her heart. First," Gormalla said, "they will open her up, and cut her heart out, while it yet beats in her chest.

"Then," she continued, strutting around him, still smug, "her heart will be replaced with the heart of an Abomination. Not, of course, that it will be much of a difference," and she threw her head back and roared with laughter. No one, not even the trolls, joined in.

She went on after composing herself, "The blood of the Abomination will enter her veins, and she will be Healed by it… until she dies moments later.

"But don't worry, Groll, your spawn will grow in her regardless. He will grow and when he is born, he will already be Turned. How convenient, don't you think? Then when your whelp is born, she will be used to grow many more soldiers for the Scourge. Who knows, you may even be the lucky scourge minion that gets to impregnate her again. You would like that, wouldn't you, Groll?" She laughed again, cruelly, spitefully. "This is going to be fun to watch, I think."

But Groll noticed something while Gormalla was talking. His wife was not unconscious after all. And no one was watching her. All Groll could see was her hand, but he watched as it uncurled, and even he could not hear her soft incantation over Gormalla's crowing. A wisp of shadow gathered in her hand, just a mere wisp. It was clear she was weak, but she could still toss the magic. She couldn't see Groll, so could not free him.

She could, however, see Modaire. And it was he that she freed with the last bit of magic she was able to cast. Groll watched the shadow sweep through the air, landing on the ice that entombed Modaire. The shadows seemed to come to life, crawling across the ice, shattering and melting it.

In an instant, Modaire was free. Groll watched in horror as time once more slowed down. His old friend lifted his arms up towards the sky, and the heavens parted. Fire rained down, setting the soldiers, including Groll and Saurfang free. But even as he began to cast the powerful spell, the first of the arrows buried itself in his chest. Another followed, and Groll watched, even as he began to race towards Modaire, as arrow after arrow seemed to blossom in his chest. He staggered, but kept casting. More were set free.

He staggered again, and the spell broke as blood geysered from his nose and mouth. A brilliant red stain spread across his chest, and he began to fall backwards. By then, Groll was there, breaking his fall, lowering him gently onto his back.

As Groll held him, Modaire looked up at him, and with a gurgle, said, "I was afraid…" he struggled for breath for a moment, "…I would die an old man…" he gasped again, coughing, "…. toddering in my tower."

"No, old friend, you die a hero's death. You die with honor and great glory. Because of you, Azeroth is saved this day. The orcs will tell tales of you, and even sing terrible bawdy songs about you."

Modaire tried to laugh, coughing instead. "I'm happy. I guess that comes…" he struggled again to gain enough breath to speak, "…of too much time spent with orcs."

Groll grunted, "It was only an accident of birth that clothed you in the wrong flesh, my friend. You're an orc if ever I knew one."

Modaire died there in Groll's arms, a smile on his face. His eyes stared at the same sky he had opened up to call freedom down from. Groll took that one instant longer to close them. Then, he turned resolutely, ignoring the skirmishes taking place between himself and his quarry.

Which was not actually the Prophet. Not yet. No, he would let Saurfang take care of the Prophet for the moment. He was going to kill that apothecary that intended to cut his wife open.

Groll bounded up the steps towards the back of the dais. Although wanting desperately to cut Shantille free, he ignored her after noticing that indeed she was still unconscious. He headed straight for the apothecary, who immediately flickered a trinket he held, and started running for the portal it opened. Groll grinned, a fierce, cruel grin. Big mistake on the part of the apothecary, turning his back on an enemy.

Groll channeled his rage into a swift burst of speed, zipping across the stone ruins to slam into the apothecary with brutal force. But he didn't stop with stunning the undead minion, choosing instead to kick him brutally in the back of the knee, snapping the calf bone cleanly. Then he let Blood Drinker do the rest, and decapitated the apothecary before he could even stand.

He took a quick glance around, seeing Gormalla engaged with another orc woman, who seemed to have the situation under control. Various knots of battle raged, the trolls seeming to be taking the brunt of damage. Content that no one needed him with a greater urgency than did Saurfang; he whipped across the tier past the dais. Once he engaged the monstrous Prophet, he let all the fury of the past few days howl through his veins.

He slashed brutally at the undulating skeletal tail, missing the first time, as he'd not yet gotten the rhythm of the obscene creature's movements down. But on the next swing, Blood Drinker sank into bone, chipping a small flake off of it. From around him, he heard the sounds of battle slowing down, and he could only hope that the Horde contingent had gained the upper hand. Swinging Blood Drinker again, he desperately sought to take more than just flakes of bone off of the hideous monstrosity of the Prophet.

"I will devour you all," shouted the Prophet of Quetz'lun as the garrisons hammered at him. It was no empty boast, either, as even the mighty Saurfang was taking tremendous blows that staggered him backwards, once even driving him to one knee. The Prophet had obviously been significantly boosted in power in some way. Despite the blessing Quetz'lun had placed on Groll and Saurfang, they were both already feeling the beginnings of fatigue.

Groll saw another flash of magic, and the Prophet was bathed yet again in enveloping fire. Then he saw the grotesque crawl of shadow magic in and out of the bones. He'd never felt quite so happy to see that shadow magic, except earlier when it had released Modaire.

He had maneuvered to where he could see Shantille, and be certain that no one approached her. As he watched, though, he saw Tensor speak with another healer, who nodded to whatever he had asked her. Then Tensor separated from the small patch of healers, passing through the phalanx of four soldiers who were protecting them from any who might approach. Tensor darted across the stone floor of the temple, tripping slightly over a stone block that had fallen there.

Groll tried to split his attention between making sure that Tensor's intentions were good, and the monstrosity of the Prophet, who still showed little sign of weakness. Indeed, it seemed almost as if their efforts were in vain.

Tensor arrived at Shantille and cut the ropes that held her bound, with four fast slashes of his short sword. Then, he lifted his hands and bathed her in Healing magic. Lying there, unconscious on the stone, she glowed for a moment with a Holy, brilliant golden light. A few seconds later, and Groll's heart roared in his chest as she sat up, groggy, but alive and whole. He struggled between leaving the battle, where he was desperately needed because of the blessing of the goddess; and rushing over to gather his wife in his arms.

He managed to stay and do his duty at the fight for a moment, until his heart once more roared in his chest—this time in outrage and even fear. A single troll was rushing towards Tensor and Shantille, a massive axe swinging in each hand. Instantly, Groll rushed to intercept, letting his fury and his desperation once more give his feet wings.

He thought at first that he'd arrived in time. The goddess blessing made it easy enough for him to dispatch the troll with a single slice of Blood Drinker into the spine of the other man. When Groll turned towards Tensor and Shantille, though, he was greeted by the terrible sight of his wife sitting on the ground, Tensor clasped tightly against her, blood spraying them both. Another heartbeat and he realized that Tensor was gasping in pain and shock, and Shantille was desperately trying to reach the severed leg that was sliding off of the temple's edge. Even as Groll watched, it gained momentum and was gone- his lunge missing it by less than an inch.

Weeping, Shantille used the Power she'd regained while unconscious to cast the heal that would save Tensor's life—and ensure that he never walked again. Without the leg to reattach before casting the Heal, the place the leg had been severed from would heal over, and the leg would never be able to be reattached. In seconds, the deed was done, and Tensor's fate was irrevocably sealed.

Shantille's Power was low, though, and she could not fully Heal him. Blessedly, Groll thought, Tensor passed out, and Shantille crawled out from under him. At last, an eternity later, her eyes met his. A jolt of extreme joy passed through him as he looked into those glowing green orbs.

"I knew you would come," she said, her voice breathless and throaty. "Take me to the healers, and finish the fight, my love."

He picked her up, feeling how light and fragile she was. He ran with her the short distance to the healers, who split to let him enter their inner circle. When he sat her down, he said only, "I love you, I'll be back." She nodded and he stepped away. The healers closed around her, swallowing her up into their ranks. The four who flanked and protected them moved back into position.

With a new resolve, Groll charged once more across the temple floor. This time, though, he roared his rage and fury into the Prophet's face. The Prophet turned to him, and Groll watched, waiting, holding Blood Drinker. When the Prophet dove to bite him, Groll snapped Blood Drinker upwards, into the cavity of the Prophet's skull where he had begun to feel certain a still-living brain resided.

The Prophet roared backwards, blood gushing from his mouth and eye sockets.

"The head," shouted Saurfang, "destroy the head! Wait for him to attack!"

Those who gathered close to the bestial monstrosity waited, patiently, for the Prophet to attack again. Like a swarm of insects, they slashed and ripped and beat on the head of the Prophet every time it came near to attack. Spells burst against him in the same moment, and blood once more gushed freely as the Prophet, roaring incoherently now, reared back again. It arced out over the contingent of Horde soldiers, an unholy rain that poured into eyes and onto armor and robes in equal measure.

Still, it was long moments before the Prophet began to falter. But when he did, it seemed to galvanize the troops, and they redoubled their efforts. Yet Groll felt the blessing of the goddess waning, and he could sense that all were near the end of their strength. The healers were running out of Power, as were the magic casters. The fighters were flagging, too, their blows landing less surely, exhaustion plain in their eyes and bodies.

_Close_, Groll thought, _we've come so close. But we can't do this. When the blessing fades, neither Saurfang nor myself can withstand his attacks._

The tide turned slowly, simply. People began to fall where they stood, exhaustion or pain finally claiming them. Some passed out, some simply could not go on, falling to groan in misery and lost hope.

To Groll's surprise, the healers and their four protectors moved up, as did the magic casters. They did the only thing left to them. They attacked with blades or maces or flimsy ceremonial daggers. They, too, fought to exhaustion, and dropped away, sometimes one at a time, and often in whole groups. Some were injured by the flailing attacks of the slowly (too slowly!) dying Prophet.

At last, only Groll, Saurfang, and the Prophet were left. Groll felt the blessing fade then, and for the first time, he felt the terrible, frigid bite of the magic of the Prophet tear into his flesh. He bellowed in pain as the Prophet dipped again, this time biting brutally into Groll's shoulder, rendering his shield arm useless in a single attack.

Groll knew that his death was imminent, and that if he didn't do something fast, all would be lost. The next time that the Prophet's massive, skeletal head dipped, Groll leaped straight up into the air. He saw, to his horror, that Saurfang was gripped firmly in the monster's jaws. But he couldn't let the horrific sight deter him. Raising Blood Drinker into the air, Groll drove it down into the Prophet's brain. This time, he didn't withdraw it. He let go, and felt himself slipping to the ground.

Time once more slowed down, and as he fell, he looked at Shantille. He landed on the ground with a powerful, wrenching impact. In the back of his mind, he registered the Prophet, still grasping Saurfang, falling to the ground with a crushing roar of grinding bone and stone. As darkness once more claimed him, the last thing Groll saw was Shantille release a puff of golden, Holy magic. He thought how beautiful she was, and then he thought that he was dying. Then he realized that he finally, truly, understood. Drifting into darkness, he understood that giving your life for those you love truly was the most peaceful, beautiful way to die.

Groll knew he was in the joyous afterlife for one reason, and one reason only. Because such a feeling could only exist in the joyous afterlife. He was awash in a feeling of tenderness, of tremendous love. He sighed and opened his eyes. Yes, it was definitely the joyous afterlife, he realized, because Shantille was there, smiling at him with the same tenderness and love that was bathing him even now.

He grabbed her and pulled her close, rolling over onto her as she shrieked with surprised laughter. Only to come face to face with the corpse of a naked troll. "Arragh!" he bellowed in surprise.

"There are dead trolls in the Afterlife?" he asked in shock.

Shantille giggled. "I regret to inform you, sir, that you aren't dead just yet." Her eyes twinkled a merry shade of amusement at him. He looked at her; so happy to be holding her again that he couldn't think of what to do first. She settled his conundrum for him, reaching out to pull his head down to hers. Ignoring the blood that coated them both, she kissed him, nibbling softly, passionately, across his lower lip. Groll sighed again, and kissed her back with increasing vigor.

"That's just downright strange," someone said.

Groll heard Morgor's voice, "You shut the fuck up, you little prick." A loud 'smack!' followed the pronouncement, and Groll almost grinned. Someone, he knew, had just gotten himself smacked upside the head.

Groll pulled back, looking at Shantille, drinking in her pale skin, the dark hair that haloed her face, and the green glow of her eyes. He thought for a moment that the unknown little prick was right, it was strange. He thought back to the struggles he had felt over why she could love him. He recognized that he was brutish, savage, bestial, unsophisticated, brash, and a killer. But at last, he also knew the rest of the story, the reason why such a lovely woman could love him. Because he was also a loving husband; a devoted friend; a talented warrior; and in general, an honorable man.

Finally dragging himself back to the reality of the moment, he sat up and looked around, taking stock of the situation. The healers were walking among the bodies, casting on those that survived and ignoring those who hadn't. To his surprise, he saw that Gormalla was chained against the stone slab that held the now dead Abomination. Saurfang sat not far from Groll, clearly still alive despite the Prophet savaging him. When asked, Groll was informed that the majority of the contingent had survived; there were five casualties, including Modaire. There were three injured so severely that they would never fight again, Tensor amongst them with his severed leg.

Groll sat Shantille on his lap, unable to let go of her for even a moment. She seemed equally content to sit with him, leaning against his chest.

Suddenly, Groll realized that he'd once more overlooked the obvious. He asked one of the soldiers nearby to get him some food. At the rebellious look on the young fellow's face, Groll snarled, "Get my wife some food now, before I beat your damned face in." Paling, the man scurried off, returning shortly with some bread and meat. Once again, Groll carefully monitored how much Shantille ate, allowing her only the bread for the time being. When starved, meat was too hard to digest, he knew.

He offered the meat to Saurfang, who ate it ravenously. Soon, Saurfang got up and began directing the contingent. He sent the injured home via mage portals, as well as the bodies of the four other dead. Tensor remained, insisting that he be allowed to attend Modaire's funeral.

Saurfang came to Groll. "Modaire has no family. As his closest living friend, it falls to you to decide the fate of his body."

Groll realized that his alone time with Shantille had to be put off until this precious, necessary duty had been fulfilled. He sighed and buried his face in her hair for a moment before rising.

His decision made, the contingent cleaned up to the best of their ability, ignoring the corpses of the trolls and the Prophet, who in death had reverted to his troll form, lying nude and obscene on the cold stone.

"There is another duty that must be performed," Saurfang said, and indicated Gormalla. "It is you whom she betrayed, so you have the first rights to her punishment."

Groll shook his head, "She is of Morgor's clan. I will let him choose what punishment she deserves." Watching the tension drain from his friend's body, Groll knew it had been the right decision. Groll knew why, too. Because Groll didn't really have the stomach to do what must be done. For all that he was a true warrior, he had always had a weak spot for women, particularly lovers. Additionally, the true, greatest dishonor had been done to the clan she came from, and thus he would let someone of her clan make the decision of what would be done with her.

Turning to the mages, he asked that they call up a portal to Silvermoon City. The portal appeared, and together with three other orc warriors (who almost had to fight the elves for the right), picked up the bier that held the prone corpse of Modaire. Solemnly, the group began to pass through the portal.

Last to come through was Morgor. He nodded once to Groll, and Groll knew the deed was done. In the cold ruins of the temple they had just left, Gormalla had been split from pelvis to breastbone. She would die a slow, painful death, ignobly chained to the altar with her intestines spilled on the cold stone. She had dishonored her clan, betrayed a friend, and nearly brought destruction down upon all of them. Her name would be stricken from all stories, songs, and documents. It would be as if she had never existed. It was the worst possible fate for an orc, and one that it would be difficult for anyone to claim she didn't justly deserve.

As soon as Morgor stepped through the portal, the contingent of three garrisons, one High Overlord, two Loremasters, one one-legged man, and a certain elven priestess began the solemn march through the hallowed streets of Silvermoon City. Leading the way with the bier carrying Modaire, they marched slowly through the city.

The steady "clomp clomp, clomp clomp" of their feet echoed hollowly off the sides of the city. In otherwise eerie silence, they walked steadily, calmly towards their goal.

It was Loremaster Kenna who began to speak when people emerged to stare at the passing troops. "Here lies the hero Modaire."

The entire contingent, with one voice, repeated his words, "Here lies the hero Modaire!"

Slowly, as they passed through the city, numbers of elves began to follow behind them. Gathering at first in small knots that whispered amongst themselves over the strange spectacle, then they fell quiet and followed in solemn accord behind the rough, still dirty soldiers. The entourage grew as they passed shops and training centers and inns. When new elves joined the procession and asked what was going on, it was the elves themselves who quickly shushed them.

Marching steadily, the solemn procession finally passed through the gates of Silvermoon City into Eversong Woods. There, they marched for another hour, even Tensor on his crutches giving no complaint. At last, they reached the shores of the pond that Shantille had recommended.

There, the three garrisons laid their hero to rest, where the birds sang, and the flowers bloomed on the shores of a placid pond. His grave lay near the waterfall that fed the pond, so that the sound would sing to him forever. Stately dragonhawks sailed across his grave, their golden feathers shimmering in the flickering shadows cast by the delicate leaves of the trees.

There would be no tower for Modaire, whose final act of giving up his life had saved an unknown number of lives. Groll remembered the smile on Modaire's face as he died, and he understood. There can be no more peaceful way to die, than knowing that you've given your life for those you love.

"Honor and Glory!" Groll shouted, his guttural orcish voice rising above the tranquility of Eversong Forest.

Behind him, the shout rose from a thousand or more throats, "Here lies the hero Modaire!"

And so the contingent had dispatched the second great duty. Many eyes were suspiciously bright as they laid Modaire to rest; and then when they returned to the inn within to celebrate the life, and glorious death, of their friend Modaire, who had saved them all. The group of soldiers was delighted to tell the story over and over that evening, regaling the elves with the tale numerous times.

In years to come, it would become a normal sight to see orcs pass through Silvermoon on a pilgrimage to see the grave of the Orc-who-was-an-elf. The legend of Modaire became inextricably entwined with the legends of Shantille, Groll, and Morgor (and the woman who betrayed them all- she whose name would never be spoken again).

Saurfang returned to Warsong Hold, after giving Groll a simple directive. "Take her to the old country, and hide her there. Protect her. We cannot afford for her to be taken again by the Scourge. Nor can we allow her to be around the soldiers until she learns to control her Talent. Not all men are good men, but many men who aren't good men, learn to control their dark side, and accomplish good things.

"We cannot have her disrupting whole garrisons. Therefore, she must be protected and hidden until she is able to resume her duties as a Horde healer."

Groll nodded, and tried for a short time to suffer through the celebration in Silvermoon. But he wanted alone time with Shantille more than he wanted anything in the world at the moment. At last, unable to hold out any longer, he bought a room and led her upstairs to the good-natured ribbing of those of the garrison who remained. The elves, having heard the story the entire night long (sometimes more often than they asked for), were inclined to ignore the idiosyncrasies of at least one elf, who for some unaccountable reason, chose to love an orc.

When the door closed behind them, they were pleased to find that a bath had already been delivered, the staff there recognizing the fact that dirty soldiers are ones who want baths. Undressing one another greedily, awkwardly, desperately, they couldn't stop kissing long enough to get into the tub. Groll's penis pressed urgently against Shantille, and he kissed her with a frenzied desire. No part of him held back any longer, the fullness of his love was expressed in both his urgency and his tenderness. He loved her with a depth that sang from his soul in much the way the lust for battle sang in his blood.

He picked her up and climbed into the tub, sinking into the water as she let her legs slip around him. Lacking any interest in finesse, Groll reached down and guided himself into her, pulling her abruptly into his lap. She gasped, her eyes flying wide and rising to meet his. "Oh, Groll, I missed having you inside me so much!"

Groll felt his eyes close part way as his lust surged as much from the feel of her vaginal walls grasping him snugly, as from her words, which echoed so nearly his own feelings. They sloshed water madly as Groll's powerful arms lifted and lowered her, but neither of them cared. When Groll felt himself leading up to an orgasm, he stopped, slowing them both down, to gentle protests from Shantille.

He washed her then, hurriedly, growling in a long low rumble when she arched backwards (his penis still inside her), and washed her hair. Lifting her and sitting her and the side of the tub then, he ducked under the water, washing his own hair. Taking a mouth full of water, he moved towards her, a grin on his face as he slipped his face up between her legs. With sudden force, he pushed the water out directly into the soft folds there.

Gratified by her startled and pleased gasp, he dipped down for more water, and repeated the procedure, this time trying to prolong it. Finally, he climbed out of the water, and plucked her off of the tub. Realizing that they'd long since given their relationship away to the authorities of Silvermoon, he went to the bed and dumped her unceremoniously, albeit gently, on it. Spreading her legs and pulling her to the edge of the bed, he knelt and dove into her folds immediately with his tongue.

He was determined to show her how much he had missed her, and lavished her inside and out with swipes of his tongue, until she had shuddered twice in orgasm. The second time he'd had his strong, mobile tongue inside her, and was gratified by the rush of liquid that poured on it. And this time, he was unsurprised when she grabbed him by the tusks, pulling him against her.

Deciding that he'd put off his own desire long enough, he lifted her legs up, standing up. Her feet were once more on his chest, though they'd finally quit sloughing water from the bath they'd never toweled off from. Positioning himself so that he was actually kneeling now on the lower board of the bed, he was pleased to find that their pelvises matched perfectly, lining up so that he could rub the head of his penis against her, up and down the bright pink folds several times. He enjoyed for a moment the contrast between pink and dusky green, before sliding into her.

This time, it was a slow slide, all the way until he felt her butt against his scrotum. He pressed a bit more; just to be sure he was completely inside of her. He slid in and out a few times, staring into her beautiful eyes with a half smile on his brutish face.

Then, realizing that he'd missed every part of her, he slipped out, and moved to her anus. Looking at her, he waited for her to nod, acceptance of his desire. He gently, slowly pressed into her, one hand worked in front of her to tease at her clitoris. Finally, he felt himself slide in, and soon she had relaxed enough that he was able to begin pumping, slowly, carefully, in and out of her once more.

It was different, he found, to look her in the face as he did this. Once more, he had staked his claim on every part of her, and it was as thrilling this time as the first. As his arousal intensified, he began to move faster, and was excited by her answering moans as he began to flick faster at her clitoris as he pumped into her faster and faster.

At last, he felt his release rising, and considered slowing down and prolonging it again. But then he looked down to watch himself; and the position she was in, the sight of her pink folds under his green fingers, and the view of him sliding in and out of her pushed him over the edge before he could stop. He felt her respond to his growling orgasm with one of her own, and grabbed her hips, pressing deeper into her as his sperm spilled into her, pushed lustily by his spasming penis.

Picking her up, he climbed into the water again, cleaning them both off. This time, when they got out, they dried off. Stripping the comforter off the bed (on account of it being soaked), they climbed into the sheets and went to sleep, as wrapped around each other as was feasible.

Several times that night, they awoke again, each time making love again. Sometimes slowly, sometimes frenziedly. Finally, in the morning, hunger drove them from their shelter and out to the common room of the inn, where they were greeted by Morgor and Tensor, as well as a messenger who carried a missive from High Overlord Saurfang.

Groll was given the full estate of one woman, whose name could not be said, as the one wronged by her. To his delight, he found that she had owned property, ironically enough, on the shores of a certain pond in the Barrens. Groll and Shantille commissioned three cabins to be built there, and there they went to live. Morgor, needed of course to assist in protecting Shantille, should any seek again to take her, lived in one.

Tensor, no longer able to fight, moved into another at their insistence, where he gleefully set about studying herbalism and alchemy. He was delighted by the various species to be found right there, on the shores of the small pond. He once confided in Groll that losing his leg had been one of the best things to ever happen to him, getting him out of soldier duty with an honorable excuse so that he could follow his passion for studying plants. Groll was relieved to hear it, happy that his friend was happy. It accented to him how one man's worst fear (growing old toddering in a tower, so to speak) could be another man's greatest hope in life.

And of course, Groll and Shantille moved into the largest of the three. There, an elderly orc man visited weekly from Orgrimmar, teaching Shantille how to control her latent Talent.

Saurgor was born in the bright spring, when the flowers were in bloom and Tensor was at his most garrulous. The air was fragrant and humid, the landscape painted in the brilliance of spring. All around the Barrens (which were far from barren, for those with eyes to see), animals were being born, and hatched. It was the season of new life, and Groll and Shantille happily added their green-eyed, green-skinned son to the numbers of babies being born in their quiet little section of the world.

During the birth, Groll, like all orc fathers, stomped and yelled and even threw things. When would it be over? How long could it possibly take? Where was his son? Finally, Abeqwa, visiting to assist the midwife with the birth, stomped out of the cabin. "Get yerself off, mister, and stop yer bellowing! Yer calf will be 'ere when 'im and Shantille's ready, and not a minute faster!" The door slammed promptly in Groll's shocked face, and he took his stomping and yelling over to the unfortunate Tensor's house.

When at last he was allowed to go inside his house and watch his son nursing, he was startled at the feelings that assailed him. Shantille looked tired, sweaty, and contented. His son nursed happily, born like all orcs without his milk teeth.

The first year was difficult, but to everyone's surprise, the best babysitter turned out to be Tensor, for all his claims that he didn't want to raise children. He was patient, and little Saurgor followed him everywhere he went. The two of them could look at flowers and plants the whole day long, Shantille often having to hunt them down in order to care for little Saurgor.

It was one humid evening in midsummer of the next year that Groll and Shantille once more stood on the banks of their little pond again. For the first time in several years, they were alone. Morgor and Tensor had taken Saurgor to Orgrimmar for his first trip there. Groll stood with his face buried in Shantille's hair, trying to keep his tusks from tangling with it.

"I think it's time Saurgor had a little brother," he said.

"Or a sister," Shantille said, her voice thick with a mounting lust.

"Or a sister," Groll agreed, his own voice harsh with desire, his penis erect and pressing hard against Shantille's belly.

In the many generations to come, it became a family tradition to (at least attempt to) conceive one's first child at that self-same pond. Groll and Shantille did eventually leave to go on more adventures. They also managed to have more children- one of them a daughter. Groll, no longer afraid of either death or life, became a legendary warrior, just as Saurfang foresaw. And life, in that way that it has, marched every onwards…

And so the story ends.


End file.
